


If Happiness Starts with an H, Why Does Mine Start with U?

by salixbabylon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alpha Scott, Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkward Romance, Drinking, Emotions, Eventual Smut, Everyone Is Alive, Existential Angst, Fairies, Fluff, Hilarity Ensues, Humor, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Meme, Monster of the Week, Nogitsune, Pack, Pack in College, Slow Build, Snark, Stiles-centric, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 46,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salixbabylon/pseuds/salixbabylon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek take a romp through the alphabet - sassing, snarking, and seducing each other all the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adam's Apple

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to everyone who contributed word prompts, and huge thank yous to Frances and Connie for the beta!

_*Crunch crunch crunch smack slurp crunch swallow*_

_Juicy_ , Stiles thinks, and licks the trickle dribbling down the side of his hand. _Apples aren’t usually this juicy. Yum._

This is the extent of his thoughts until he feels it – the critical glower of an alpha. There must be something supernatural about that scowl, seriously. No mere human can convey quite as much scorn as Derek can. Maybe it’s the whole _If you continue to disgust me, I’ll rip your throat out_ vibe.

“Apple?” Stiles offers, holding it out.

“No.”

“They’re super juicy. There are a few more in the kitchen; I could get you one. They’re really good. Have one. Have an apple, Derek.”

Derek’s suspicion is almost visible. “Are you Eve or the Serpent in this little drama? And stop waving that half-eaten apple in my face or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

“Jeez, I’m just offering you something delicious, Mr. Ungrateful Grouchywolf.” Stiles takes another bite as loudly and as indignantly as he can. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” he adds while he chews. “Is that your problem? Not enough fiber in your diet?” 

Stiles’s forehead crinkles as he tries to imagine trying to get Derek to follow the same diet he forces on his dad. Without guilt in his arsenal, he doesn’t think it would go very well for him.

It’s sort of fun to watch Derek struggle with himself, even if it makes Stiles a bad person to admit it. To watch him literally bite his tongue to keep from shouting, keep from starting another stupid battle of words and wills with Stiles, and just walk away. Derek’s trying this new thing lately, not engaging – Stiles thinks it’s because Derek doesn’t want to lose face in front of his betas. Or waste his energy arguing over something ridiculous like how much fiber he gets in his diet (although seriously, everyone needs fiber, it’s not dumb, and Stiles will be revisiting the topic of werewolf nutritional needs later). 

Derek is still his favorite person to annoy, though, so he cheerfully takes another loud, smacking, slurping bite of the apple, knowing Derek can hear him, wherever he stalked off to. It’s a good apple. He sucks the juice off the exposed flesh, humming a little at how delicious it is; realizes it probably sounds – and looks – obscene, and giggles to himself. Which makes him choke on the mouthful he was still chewing, of course, because Stiles is still Stiles, no matter how old he gets. If there’s a way to flail awkwardly, his body will find it.

“Shut up,” he yells, when he’s done coughing. He didn’t hear Derek’s huff of laughter, but he knows it happened. “If I choked to death, you’d be sorry.”

“I’d get over it,” Derek calls from upstairs.

“There would be lamentations and weeping. You’d miss my smiling face.”

“I’d miss that you do the grocery shopping. But then Lydia would probably do it.”

“Lydia would probably feed you poisoned apples if you tried to delegate a household chore to her,” Stiles points out, as Derek returns to the living room.

Derek shrugs. “Probably. But the way you’re going on about those apples, I’m starting to wonder if they aren’t drugged with something.”

“Just natural goodness,” Stiles grins. “Like me.” He finishes his last bite and goes to the kitchen to throw away the core. “Try one,” he says, throwing an apple at Derek.

Derek sighs the sigh of the vastly put-upon. “I bet Adam took a bite just to get Eve to shut the hell up,” he grouses. Rolling his eyes, he raises the fruit to his mouth and sinks in his teeth. A fine mist of juice sprays out, and some of it runs down Derek’s chin as he chomps and slurps.

“S’good,” he allows, once he’s mostly done chewing.

Stiles snorts, and chomps into another apple, and watches the trickle of juice slide over the prominent knob on Derek’s throat. He licks at his own apple, and tries not to wonder how it would taste mixed with Derek’s skin.


	2. Blush

It takes a ridiculously long time for Stiles to notice that Derek’s ears turn red sometimes. Not like alpha-eyes red, and not when his ears were all wolfly-hairy, but like, regular red. Flushed.

In Stiles’s defense, he doesn’t exactly sit around looking at Derek’s ears a lot, and most of their interactions tend to be on the life-or-death side, or at the very least, on the massively argumentative side. Only recently has that changed. The nemeton had been mostly destroyed after the last round of evil things was called to it, and Scott has finally agreed that regular Pack meetings would be a good idea. The only way to lure everyone there is to feed them, and then, well – movies and video games seem like a natural activity for after. Thank God Scott’s mom is so awesome about having a house full of supernatural barely-still-teenagers all the time.

So, yeah. Only after knowing the guy for a few years does Stiles actually sit in a crowded living room and hang out with him, watching movies. And notice that sometimes, the tips of Derek’s ears turn red.

He’s watching Scott clean up the debris after everyone has left, when Stiles finally can’t hold it in any longer. “Did you ever notice that Derek’s ears turn red sometimes?”

Scott carefully balances a few more cups on top of the empty pizza box he’s carrying. “What? No. What?”

“Like, the tips of his ears – which totally stick out, don’t pretend like you never noticed, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes, I’m not a freak, I just notice things. Shut up. Anyway, his ears, red sometimes. Wonder what that’s about.”

Scott, to his credit just blinks once and pretends like this is a fairly normal conversation, which, honestly, it is. For them. For _Stiles_.

“Okay, so they’re red. Like, when he’s angry, maybe? Sometimes people’s faces flush when they’re mad,” Scott offers after thinking for a few moments.

“Why would he be mad while we were watching _Skyfall_?” Stiles counters.

“I don’t know… Maybe he… doesn’t like violence? Spies? Sex scenes?”

That seems doubtful. Sure, Derek is fucked up, and has a spectacularly shitty romantic history, but no one can hate just seeing a sexy scene in a movie. Can they? That would indicate a fairly major psychological problem, wouldn’t it? Not that Derek doesn’t have bucketloads of those, with good reason, but… wow, what a waste, if sex makes Derek angry. Looking like he does, people eyeing him all the time…. No wonder he’s such a cranky bastard.

But still. Sex is everywhere. Sex is awesome – Stiles has that on good authority, and he’s pretty much decided now that he's had some firsthand experience that consensual sex with another human equals _awesome_ , no two ways about it.

“Or maybe he was just embarrassed, you know? We haven’t watched a movie with people outright fucking before.”

“Oh come on, it’s not like we were watching porn or anything,” Stiles argues.

"No, but… that one scene in the shower was kind of…. You know. Hot,” Scott says and clears his throat.

“You think he’s _blushing_? Mister Alpha Sourwolf, the guy with the black leather jacket and sex pants and endless death threats? Blushing like an innocent maiden?”

Scott smacks him on the back of the head. “Shut up. He could be. Not like you’d be able to tell if he was really blushing, through all that stubble.”

Stiles kicks him as he rubs his head. “Point. I mean, if it was from anger, dude has a really short fuse…. But I think I noticed his freakishly pink ears around the time Bond left the casino with the hot chick…. Which means you might be right. He was blushing! OMG, Scotty, that’s fucking priceless!” Stiles cackles.

Scott smacks him again, laughing as he twists out of the way of Stiles’ retribution-kick. “You’re such an ass. Don’t make fun of him. It’s not like he’s exactly well-socialized, and if you drive him off, you’re going to have to be the one to get him to come him back here for Pack nights.”

“You are the meanest Alpha ever, can’t I have even one minute to celebrate this tiny triumph? We can embarrass Derek about sex! It’s like my birthday, man. I never get any leverage on that guy and now – freaking goldmine!”

“Dickface,” Scott says, smacking Stiles again as he takes another armload into the kitchen.

Stiles sprawls on the sofa, getting his revenge by continuing to not help Scott clean up. It’s not a very good revenge, but whatever. Derek blushing – could that really be a thing? Only about sexual things, or any time he’s embarrassed? When else has Stiles seen Derek embarrassed?

He culls through his memories, thinking about red-tinted ears and flushed necks, and stubble. And about the overlap between embarrassment and anger. And arousal. And thinking about how that one porn star’s whole torso turns red with what Stiles found out is called a _sex flush_ , right when he’s about to come. Derek could maybe have a sex flush….

“Dude!” Scott yells from the kitchen. “Stop perving in my living room, I can smell your pheromones from in here!”


	3. Cookies

There is the slight thud of feet jumping in through the window and landing on the floor behind Stiles. Someone sniffs loudly a few times.

“Is something burning?”

Stiles glances up from his computer at the egg timer ticking on his desk. “What? No! There’s still like five minutes. Also, how fucked up is it that I don’t even jump when you come in through the window anymore?”

Derek doesn’t bother to answer. “Pizza?”

“Duh,” Stiles says, finally swiveling his chair around to look at Derek. “You know you can call and have it delivered to your house, right? It’s a thing nowadays.”

Derek shoves Stiles’s rolling chair so he slams – reasonably gently – into the edge of his desk. “Ass. Do you have any powdered sugar?”

Stiles stops rubbing his belly and gives Derek the most incredulous look in the _universe_ on his face. “You. You are asking me if you can borrow a cup of sugar. Seriously?”

He gets a miniscule shrug. “Yeah? Well, do you? Both markets are out, and sometimes you cook.”

Stiles’s brow furrows. “So you’re literally asking me for a cup of sugar, not, like, euphemistically?”

“What in the name of god is that a euphemism for? No, nevermind,” Derek says, cutting himself off as Stiles’s heartbeat quickens. “Just, yes. Real, actual powdered sugar. For baking.”

“You. You’re baking.”

Sighing wearily, Derek closes his eyes, gathering his patience. “Yes. With flour and an oven and everything. Now, do you have any goddamned powdered sugar or should I just go rifle through your kitchen and find out for myself?”

“Do you have a lacy little apron?”

Derek flashes his eyes and fangs at Stiles, and heads for the door.

“No, wait! I’ll get it for you. Such a grouchy wolf,” Stiles scolds, clucking his tongue as he follows Derek down the stairs.

He pulls the box out of a cupboard, and holds it, not quite offering it to Derek. “So. Watcha baking?”

Derek sighs. “Cookies, all right? Cookies for the pack. And I need powdered sugar, so can you please give it to me?”

“Aw, that’s so domestic and adorable.” Stiles bounces the box around for a moment. “My mom used to bake cookies for Christmas gifts.”

Derek nods. “Mine too.”

Stiles nods as their eyes meet and they share a moment, both remembering being little boys, in a huge kitchen full of the smells that meant holidays and love.

Stiles clears his throat. “Do you need any help?”

There’s a pause, where it’s clear that Derek doesn’t actually _need_ any help, but he eventually nods anyway. “You can help. In exchange for the sugar,” he adds, lunging forward and grabbing it out of Stile’s hand as the timer goes off on the oven. “Eleven o’clock, my place. And if you eat more than one spoonful of dough from each batch, you don’t get any to take home.”

Stiles makes a face, but then shrugs as he turns around to pull his pizza out of the oven. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

****

The grin on Stiles’s face as he rings the doorbell the next day is the exact opposite of reassuring. He’s also holding a grocery bag, which Derek supposes could be either good or bad. You never know, with Stiles.

As usual, he shoves his way into Derek’s space, chattering a mile a minute about everything from the rain to the snakeskin pants some lady at the grocery store was wearing to the lack of free parking around downtown to the pathetic WiFi in Derek’s loft.

Stiles puts the bag down on the table, sticks his hand inside to presumably start unloading, and then stops to visibly take in the surroundings. There are bowls and measuring cups on one counter, another is laden with ingredients, and yet another has a three-ring binder open on it. The table - aside from Stiles’s grocery bag – is covered with cooling racks. Really, if you’re going to do something, do it right. Plus, the looks he got as he glared his way around the kitchen supply shop had been amusing as hell.

“So… what are we making?” Stiles asks, going over to the binder, which is, yes, a recipe book.

“Snowballs, gingerbread, peanut butter kisses, and madeleines,” Derek says, trying not to sound uncertain. He’s a goddamned werewolf; he’s not going to let himself be embarrassed about making cookies for his pack for Christmas. He’s the alpha; he can do whatever the fuck he wants, he reminds himself. “I’ve finished the gingerbread and snowballs,” he says, nodding at a stack of plastic bins.

“Ooh!” Stiles immediately darts forward.

“One!” Derek yells. “You can have _one_ , to sample, and that’s it.”

Stiles puts a hand to his chest, all innocent, as if he would never dream of having more than the most tiny morsel, and Derek snorts.

The gingerbreads smell so good Derek can’t resist having one himself; they came out perfectly this time, more properly ginger snaps than the thicker bread, sugary and crisp. He’d had to adjust the recipe he’d found online a fair bit, but now it was right. Even better than the ones Laura had made that one Christmas in New York, when they were both feeling down.

The look on Stiles’s face tells Derek he’s having similar thoughts. Stiles might not be a wolf, but everyone has memories of their childhood, and scent is a powerful trigger even for a pathetic human nose.

“I tried once,” Stiles offers once he’s swallowed. “My dad came home to literal flames coming out of the oven, and well. The fire extinguisher kind of killed the holiday spirit, you know?”

Derek nods. “And the ones from the market suck. I figured, if we could do it when we were kids, it couldn’t be that hard.”

“Speak for yourself,” Stiles jokes.

They each have a snowball, too, and Stiles hums his approval. “Okay, so what do you want to make today?” he asks, licking the powdered sugar from his fingers.

“Madeleines, I think. If I make the peanut butter ones while you’re here, you’ll just eat them all.”

“Fine! I knew you’d be a totally obnoxious diva in the kitchen,” Stiles sulks. “But we’re making sugar cookies too.”

Derek raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“I found a werewolf cookie cutter!” Stiles exclaims, pulling the bit of metal from his bag with a flourish.

“That’s a _dog_.”

Stiles looks at it. “Dude, it’s totally a wolf.”

“I think I know more about wolves than you do, Stiles. And anyway, it’d be a wolf, not a _were_ wolf.”

“Whatever, grouchypants. I’m making them, then. And you can’t have any,” he adds, sticking out his tongue.

Derek huffs, but then shrugs his shoulders. Stiles turns on some music, and Derek starts with the batter for the madeleines. They’re not difficult, but he wants to get them right. It would be a lot easier if Stiles wasn’t hovering over him, seeming outrageously shocked every time Derek does something “chefy,” like zesting the lemon.

“Back off, brat, or you’re getting zested next,” he threatens, waving the grater at Stiles.

“Sorry! It’s just weird. You’re all domestic and, like, _tame_. You have a lemon zester! And special pans! Did you buy all this stuff?” he asks.

“No, I stole it all,” Derek answers, shaking his head. Stiles doesn’t quite look like he believes him, but also like he can’t quite picture Derek buying a couple hundred dollars’ worth of baking equipment either. Which Derek supposes is true enough; he’d gotten into a conversation with his downstairs neighbor about cookies, and it turned out she was a holiday baker too. The madeleine pans, as well as the sifter, mixer, and all but one of the cooling racks are hers.

But he likes to keep Stiles guessing.

They fall into a quiet rhythm, with Derek working on his fussy French cookies, and Stiles carefully following the simpler instructions for his sugar cookies. They get into a bit of a tussle over the bag of flour, and Stiles’s shirt ends up sprinkled with white powder. The floor is gritty from spilled sugar, but nothing is burned and both batches of cookies end up turning out pretty well.

After a short break for lunch, while the cookies are cooling, Stiles pulls out a can of fudge frosting and declares that it’s time to decorate. He’s also got a bag of tiny M&Ms, and he carefully sorts out piles of red, blue, and yellow ones. 

Stiles insists that Derek help, and then proceeds to bitch at him for doing it wrong. Of course.

“Look, you use the knife to make little… thingies. So then it looks like fur, see?” he says, demonstrating.

“Only you would make baking cookies into something that’s a huge pain in my ass,” Derek says with a sigh. “Why don’t I just frost them and you can make them all pretty?”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at him. “Fine. You do the grunt work, and I’ll do the magical artistry part.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but gets to work. He doesn’t look at the growing racks of finished cookies until he’s done frosting the naked ones. When he does, he flashes his fangs a little bit, just for show. “There can only be one alpha,” he growls.

“Pshaw,” Stiles rebuts. “Anyone can be an alpha. We have two. Sometimes there are whole _packs_ of alphas, remember?”

“Yeah, but this pack is all wrong. There should only be one alpha cookie, and only one with blue eyes.”

“I am _not_ making a specifically Peter cookie,” Stiles says, not a shred of room for argument in his tone of voice.

“I’d eat it.”

Ignoring that, Stiles says, “My cookie pack is all about equality. Or possibility, maybe. Any wolf can be whatever they choose.”

“But we’ll eat the blue-eyed ones first.”

“Heads first,” Stiles agrees with a grin.

Derek hip-checks him as he walks around the table to grab a handful of the rejected M&Ms and shoves them in his mouth, grinning behind his back where Stiles can’t see.


	4. Demented

“You have. Got to. Be fucking. Kidding me,” Stiles gasped as he ran through the forest.

Derek growled beside him, but it was hard to tell if the growl was at Stiles for wasting his breath, or at the creature chasing them. It was probably the former, since Derek had looked like he was going to piss himself with fear over tonight’s monster-of-the-week.

Stiles ducked under a low tree branch, dexterously twisted around a thorny bush, and then in a moment of superb agility, tripped over his own feet. He stumble-fell the last few yards and crossed into the protected circle that now surrounded the Hale house and said the magic words that would activate the mountain ash barrier. Bent over, hands on his knees, he panted in relief that the barrier also muffled the creatures’ sounds.

A frustrated growl came from the edge of the circle.

“I don’t know, man,” he said, moving back to the border anyway to break the circle and let Derek inside, then close it again. “If you can’t be bothered to tell me that Dementors are real, then you can damn well stay out there with them.”

“They’re not Dementors, for fuck’s sake. Stop calling them that and let me in!”

“Seriously? Wraithy ghost creatures who literally _suck the life out of you_ , but you object to calling them Dementors because it’s from a kid’s book?”

Derek ignored him in favor of eyeing the Dementors as they approached the circle. “You sure this is a dome? They’re flying, you know.”

Stiles swallowed. “Yeah, I see them, duh. And no, not a hundred percent. Do we have a plan B?”

“Fuck. No, of course not; do we ever? If they can get in, I can’t get out. I’m trapped.”

There was a slight shimmer in the barrier as Derek finished speaking. All three creatures gathered together at a point about thirty feet above Stiles and Derek, but it appeared they couldn’t break through. Not yet, anyway.

“So… What now?” Stiles asked. They were temporarily safe, but thoroughly trapped. The Dementors had left off all trying the same area, and were circling, probably looking for weak spots in the barrier. Stiles hoped like hell that Deaton was a good enough whatever-he-was that there were no weak spots.

As usual, Derek had no suggestions. Strategy: still not his strong suit. Not that Stiles had a lot of room to criticize at the moment. Being backed into a corner was not a comfortable plan, and it wasn’t super likely the Dementors would just give up and go away when their happy meal proved difficult to get out of the box.

“I’m going to call Lydia,” Stiles said.

Nearly an hour later they were still trying not to flinch at the slightest noise, cowering in Lydia’s bedroom like children who’d run home to mommy. It had turned out that Stiles’ odd impulse to contact her, rather than Deaton, actually worked. Her banshee scream had driven off the Dementors, at least for the moment. Stiles could finally hear something other than the sound of his dad sobbing as hospital machines flatlined, and Derek didn’t look like he was about to pass out from whatever flashback-sounds he was hearing.

Lydia looked a bit rattled as well, although also fairly smug that she’d been able to defeat monsters the big strong alpha werewolf had not. Her house – and all the non-supernatural people’s – had an ash barrier too, so although they were trapped, at least they were more comfortable. And they had internet, so she and Stiles were researching, surrounded by books and laptops, while Derek looked out the window at the wraiths.

“You could help,” Stiles chided, nodding at the stack of books Lydia had collected. As a banshee, she usually slipped under the radar of whatever supernatural beasties the Nemeton had lured to Beacon Hills, so they’d decided to keep their growing paranormal library at her house.

“I’m thinking,” Derek replied, brow furrowed, body still tense.

Stiles managed to refrain from any sarcastic comments about Derek and thinking and pulled muscles. He jotted a few notes down on the page he and Lydia were using for brainstorming, helpfully divided into two columns, “Drive Away” and “Banish.” They’d left a message for Deaton, and warned the rest of the pack to stay inside. Like the Harry Potter Dementors, these ones seemed to have little interest in non-magical people (okay, fine, _Muggles_.) 

Stiles would think this was funny as hell, only he was still having tremors and his eyes occasionally welled up with very manly tears of sadness. As it was, he felt like he’d been smashed in the solar plexus with a giant hammer of despair, and was having a hard time staying focused on the task rather than losing himself in painful memories of death and loss. Derek, frankly, looked like shit.

He tried to focus on the chapter he was reading about ghosts in the Mediterranean world, but gave up with a sigh. Too many words were written in Greek symbols; Lydia could deal with it, but he couldn’t right now. Beside the window, Derek’s body was rigid, and after staring at him for a few minutes, it was evident he was having slight tremors as well.

Stiles went over and put a hand on Derek’s shoulder, interrupting him from wherever his thoughts has led. “You still hear them, don’t you?”

Derek stiffened, then visibly made himself relax as he shrugged. “Downside of being a werewolf.”

Stiles nodded. “I don’t know what you’re hearing, but that was… freaking horrible,” he said, hand still on Derek’s shoulder as he turned to stare out the window too. One of the wraiths was right outside, tattered robes moving with an otherworldly wind, bony hands with shreds of mummified flesh pressed against the barrier, making it shimmer silver-blue. It was hard to say that the empty cowl/hood was looking at them, but whatever – it totally was.

“Yeah. I can’t believe they’re real,” Stiles said, trying not to shudder as the Dementor flitted off, out of view. “So fucking creepy.”

“Yeah.”

Derek was still far from loquacious, but this was a little extreme, Stiles thought. He risked a slight shake of Derek’s shoulder. “Dude, are you okay? I’ve seen you scared before but… You’re kind of worrying me.”

“I’m fine.” Not even a pause before he’d replied, and so obviously a lie that Stiles couldn’t understand why Derek’s bothered.

He snorted. “You are _so_ not.” A sudden memory of the abandoned rail station made Stiles think of trains, and _Harry Potter_ again. He opened a few drawers in the cabinet beside Lydia’s bathroom, ignoring the feminine hygiene products until he found what he was looking for.

“Here,” he said, breaking a bar of chocolate in half, and offering part to Derek. “Professor Lupin gives Harry some chocolate when he passes out from the Dementors on the train.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “That is a kid’s book. This is real life. Do you understand the difference, or have you hit your head too many times?”

Stiles shrugged. “Whatever, the monsters are real.” He pushed the chocolate at Derek. “Come on, I know you like chocolate. What could it hurt?”

Derek sighed and followed Stiles over to the bed and sat beside him, taking the bar. They ate in silence for a few moments, still starting out the window at the occasional shadow flickering past.

Stiles shifted his weight to glance at Derek, and their thighs touched. He froze, uncertain, but neither of them moved away to break contact.

Lydia cleared her throat. “If you two idiots are done eating my very expensive Belgian chocolate and being emo, I’ve found some reliable information that should help us get rid of the wraiths.”

Derek didn’t look at Stiles as he got up, but he did put an unnecessary hand on Stiles’ shoulder as he levered himself up from the bed, and headed over to the desk. “What’ve you got?”

Trying not to smile, Stiles ate the last bite and went to join them. “Do we get to learn how to do an _Expecto Patronum_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go out to everyone who contributed word prompts, and huge thank yous to Zahra for the beta, and to Jaime for the nudging!


	5. Electric

Gusts of wind rattled Stiles’ bedroom window as the storm outside grew in strength. Rain was coming down in torrents, the first real storm of the winter, and it was a big one. Stiles was on the computer, researching for his Renaissance Europe history paper, while Derek lounged on the bed looking unfairly at home as he flipped through some dusty books borrowed from Deaton’s friend.

“Damn, it’s really pouring. I’m surprised the power hasn’t—” there was a rumble of distant thunder as Stiles spoke, and the lights flickered once, and then died “—gone out. God damnit.”

He heard Derek sigh from across the room. “Well, at least the computer has a battery,” he said.

“Yeah, but the router is down, and this thing—” there was a pop as the computer lost power and the screen went dark “—is so old it won’t hold a charge anymore. Fuck.”

There was a moment of silence, and Stiles didn’t think he was imaging the judgment filling it.

“Why haven’t you bought a new battery?” Derek asked, and oh, that judgment was obvious now.

Stiles made a face in the darkness. “Because it’s stupid to buy a battery for such an old laptop; I should just get a new computer. And before you ask, I can’t afford one yet, because I keep having to replace my fucking phone every few months, thanks to all the werewolfy shenanigans breaking them. That insurance policy doesn’t cover things like dragonfire and fairies.”

Derek grunted in acknowledgment, but didn’t say anything. Stiles could vaguely make out his shape on the bed, but not much more. He shivered and reached for his phone, to use the flashlight app.

“Great. And my phone is dead too. The gods of technology hate me. What did I ever do to piss them off? Who are they, anyway?”

There was a snort from Derek’s direction. “Maybe it’s because you didn’t bother to learn their names?”

“Fuck off. Hermes, right, he’s a god of tech stuff, I think? And maybe, um, Electra?”

“The character from the Greek tragedies or the Marvel comics?” Derek asked.

“Both maybe? Shut up. Oh, but Thor!” Stiles exclaimed in a moment of brilliance. “Thunder and lightning gods from all over.”

“Now you’re getting into nature gods, which is sort of the opposite of technology, don’t you think?”

The darkness was silent for a moment as Stiles pondered. “Yeah, okay. Maybe. I don’t know, whatever. The point is, they hate me. The ghosts of Steve Jobs and Woz, Bill Gates, and whoever founded IBM, and hell, probably Edison. And Tesla maybe? Man, I hope not Tesla; he was cool.”

“Some of them are still alive,” Derek pointed out. “They could be actively hating you in the flesh.” Stiles swore at him, but he ignored it. “Why are you freaking out? Are you afraid of the dark?”

Stiles made a scoffing noise. “I’m afraid of the things _in_ the dark, thank you very much. Things which have proven to enjoy the dark, with the whole being-harder-to-see part. Like werewolves. And kanimas, and darachs, and Japanese demons, and what the fuck even was that guy with no mouth, and all the horrors locked up at Eichen house—”

Firm hands came down on his shoulders, making Stiles jump. “Breathe,” Derek ordered. “Anyway, I can see in the dark.”

“And while that is so comforting, thank you, I like to see with my own eyes. You know, before the things attack me. So I can have that millisecond to think ‘Oh shit, I should run now,’ and try to send a message to my feet to get moving.”

“Fine. You must have a flashlight somewhere, right? Other than your phone? I mean, your dad’s the sheriff, you’ve got to have basic emergency supplies in the house somewhere, right?”

“Yeah, of course. There’re two LED lanterns on the bookshelves in the living room.”

“Okay, I’ll go get them,” Derek said, turning to go.

Stiles’s arm shot out to grab Derek’s before he gave it permission to do so. “No! Wait, uh, I’ll come with you.” There was a silence. “Don’t fucking judge me, asshole, I’m practically blind here, and all the wards are down so you could come visit me. It’s your fault the house is all… vulnerable.”

There was another silence, and Stiles was really glad he couldn’t see whatever was on Derek’s face. Judgment, probably? Humor, at Stiles’s vulnerability? Impatience, almost certainly.

“Just….” Stiles stood up, using Derek’s body for leverage. “We’ll go get them together.” He hadn’t taken more than three steps before Derek’s hand grabbed his shoulder.

“You’re about to run into the wall. How can you not know your own room? I’ve seen you stumble around in the mornings; your eyes are barely open. You must know where the walls are.”

Stiles decided not to share that he frequently ran into those walls, no matter that this had been his bedroom since birth. No need to give Derek ammunition. “Whatever. Just steer me or something, with your fabulous wolf-eyes that see in the dark so well.”

Derek sighed a little, and kept his hand on Stiles’s shoulder. He guided them out into the hallway, and across to the staircase. They paused.

“There’s a stair rail,” Derek pointed out. “And a wall on the other side. What are the chances that you’ll fall anyway if I don’t go down right in front of you?”

“Uh. Well. I’m not fourteen anymore, so um, less? Less than it would have been? But still not zero. I’m pretty good at falling down these stairs. I think they think that’s a valid way for me to go down them. They don’t like me very much, these stairs. I’ve always thought they had it out for me. I’ll probably die from falling down them, someday. It’ll be so boring and stupid, and then someday someone will find out that the stairs are cursed or haunted or something, and it totally wasn’t my fault that I died in such a stupid, boring way.”

Derek made a noise that expressed the depth of his suffering--and slight amusement--to all the Powers That Be.

They made their way down the stairs without incident. There might have been a slight stumble on the last step, Stiles’s hands clutching Derek’s shoulders as he regained his balance, but no injury. Not even wounded pride, as Stiles had given that up in high school and never looked back.

The living room was full of obstacles, but Derek guided Stiles around them fairly effectively. Stiles tripped over a stray shoe, but whatever. Without discussing it, they maintained the same position: Derek in front, Stiles behind with his hands on Derek’s shoulders, bodies close together. Quite close—when Derek stopped abruptly, Stiles crashed into him, face-first.

“Fuck! Little warning, maybe?” he grumbled, rubbing his nose with one hand as they separated.

Derek grumbled, and handed Stiles one of the lanterns without a word, taking the other himself. There was the sound of clicking buttons, from both of them, but no light.

“I, uh. I think the batteries might have been used in the game controllers,” Stiles sighed. “Which are still at your place.”

“Your lack of forethought is astounding,” Derek complained. “Are there more batteries somewhere else?”

There was a long pause. “I think they’re on the shopping list.”

The silence was loud with all of the words Derek wasn’t saying. After a minute, he asked, “Okay, so, candles? Matches?”

“Hm. I think there are birthday candles in the kitchen?” Stiles said hopefully.

With a bit more grumbling from Derek, they resumed their position and made their way to the kitchen. Neither one commented on how easy it felt to be in each other’s space, the intimacy in the darkness.

“You know I can see just fine, right?” Derek asked, when the search for candles proved futile. “Can’t you just trust me that there’s nothing scary in the dark, or that I’ll let you know if I sense something?”

“Yeah, but… It’s just that…” Stiles sighed and gave up. “Yeah, okay.” It wasn’t like there were a lot of alternatives.

Derek pushed him into a chair at the kitchen table, and sat down in the one beside him. They sat quietly for a few minutes, tension growing as Stiles slid his hands under his thighs and tried not to fidget.

“Just—” Derek bumped into Stiles’s side as he scooted his chair closer. “Just relax, okay?”

“Yeah. I’m not usually this jumpy when the power goes out. I don’t like it when the wards are down on my house. And with those Dementor-things last week, I’ve been wondering what the fuck else is out there, waiting to eat us.” He slid his hands onto the table and started absently drumming his fingers.

Derek huffed, and reached over to cover them. As he touched Stiles’s hands, there was a tiny spark and pop, startling them both.

“Static electricity?” Stiles guessed, heart pounding.

Derek slowly reached out again, and there was another pop and spark, but this one lasted for more than a moment.

“I don’t think so, Sparky. Static would have been diffused after the first one. I think it’s you.”

There was a scoffing noise. “It’s not me, I’ve never done this on my own before.”

Derek touched him carefully, and this time the spark lingered, hovering in the air for several seconds before going out. It lit both their faces with a warm glow, illuminating their amazement.

“Huh,” Derek said, finally. “It must be us.”

There was a buzz, and the lights in the house came back on before Stiles could think of anything to say.


	6. First Kiss

The six of them had sat in a circle, one at each end of a six-pointed star: Scott, Kira, Derek, Lydia, Stiles, and Thorne. Thorne was a friend of Deaton’s, the owner of the local metaphysical bookshop, and held classes in meditation and wicca in the back. She didn’t usually get involved directly with their “werewolfy shenanigans,” but acted as a way better resource than Deaton ever had.

Today she’d led them through a ritual that was supposed to give a huge energy boost to their wards, both around their individual homes and around the Beacon Hills county line in general. Stiles generally preferred to wing it rather than follow a script, but the wards she’d helped them set up last year had proven invaluable, so he’d been on board.

She’d talked about the fragility of new life, of springtime. How vulnerable new plants and animals were, but how full of the spark of life, how determined to live. Stiles had zoned out a little until Lydia pinched him, and he had tuned in to hear Scott sharing the memory of his first kiss. With Allison, obviously. Stiles tried not to snicker; it wasn’t like he hadn’t been there for that first awkward kiss in the boys’ locker-room. You could practically see the hearts in Scott’s eyes, even after so many years.

When it was her turn, Kira had blushed and squirmed a little. Scott had actually been her first kiss, and the two of them bumped shoulders, bonding over being late bloomers. They’d both been pretty shy as teens, but it was kind of sweet. And it was good that they still got along, Stiles thought, even if it was a little awkward to talk about when Scott and Kira had dated in high school.

Derek grumbled a little, and asked Thorne to clarify exactly what kind of memory they were supposed to be sharing, so Stiles finally got a better idea of what the hell they were doing. They were sharing memories of their first real, romantic kiss. Not necessarily sexual kisses, but the first time they’d felt a leap in their heart, knowing that someone they had a crush on liked them back, and acted on it.

Closing his eyes to think for a while, Derek finally spoke. “It was the summer before eight grade. My mom had signed me up for an Italian language class at the library. It ended with a field trip to San Francisco, going around North Beach, Little Italy. I had a crush on this girl, Jaime, but we were just friends; I didn’t know if she liked me or not. We were in Coit Tower, looking at the murals, and I suddenly realized that everyone else had left and we were alone… My heart was pounding, and my hands were sweaty, and I couldn’t think of what to do. And then her hand was on my arm and she was kissing me.” He smiled, eyes still shut. “She smelled like fennel and oranges.”

Stiles had tried not to make little cooing noises like Kira had, but failed; it was a sweet story. He wondered what had ever happened to Jaime, but doubted he’d ever ask and find out.

Lydia had hesitated for a few moments when it was her turn, which Stiles had not expected. She revealed that, nauseatingly enough, her first kiss was with Jackson, the summer before high school started. Gross. Still, she had a little smile tugging at her lips as she remembered it, so that was nice. Even nicer that the asshole had never returned to Beacon Hills, and Stiles had no idea where he was now.

And then it had been Stiles’s turn. And he’d never actually told anyone about this, not even Scott. He’d given his best friend an apologetic look, before he started talking.

“So, my first real kiss, I guess, was the summer before high school, too. I, uh, was doing one of those summer camp things, for computer geeks. I’d known Danny, sort of, for a while but we weren’t really friends until then. We hung out a lot, and for the first time I kind of had a second-best friend, other than Scott.”

“And, um.” He took a breath, screwing his eyes shut. “One day we were working on some coding for a game or something, and he just kissed me. And, uh, I kind of flailed. I mean, duh, of course I did, but like, inside too. Like all of the weird feelings I had, and how much I liked hanging out with him, kind of twisted around in a way I hadn’t expected. I mean, I’d had a crush on Lydia since I was eight; I hadn’t really considered anyone else, girls or boys.”

It hadn’t ended well, of course. Stiles’s flailing had made Danny assume he wasn’t gay (or interested), and Stiles hadn’t known what to do with those weird feelings he’d had except thoroughly ignore them until he was older. But it had been a crush, even if he hadn’t known it yet, and it was his first real kiss.

Finally, Thorne had shared the memory of her first kiss, and then they’d all closed their eyes and focused on the sense memories. The pack bond meant Stiles had felt glimmers of the others’ too, when they were linked like this. In addition to Danny’s soft lips and minty gum, Stiles felt chapped lips, and smelled that god-awful Axe body spray Scott used to use, and tasted oranges. His heart beat fast and fluttered in his chest and his hands sweated, the nervous excitement of six kids’ first kisses thrumming through him. It had been energizing, frightening, tremulous, and amazing. Under Thorne’s direction, they pushed all that energy into the wards.

And now Stiles and Kira were tidying up, the spell was cast, the circle broken. The others were leaving, and there was a little awkwardness between Scott and Kira, as well as Lydia and Stiles. The hazards of small towns and friendships that started when you were kids, he guessed.

“Well, that explains Danny,” Derek said, startling the crap out of him. “I could never figure out if he hated you or what.”

Stiles chuckled a little, then shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t think either of us knew either. It took me a long time to figure out I was into dudes. Not really until a few years later, after I gave up on Lydia and starting looking at other people.”

Derek snorted. “I could have told you the day we met.”

“Maybe you should have,” Stiles challenged, trying for taunting but ending up with a tone that was more serious than he intended.

Derek got a strange look on his face, lips pressed together, thinking. “Maybe. But you figured it out on your own.”

Nodding, Stiles grabbed his bag. Not like he would have listened to what other people said about him when he was sixteen, anyway. He might never have realized, if not for Danny’s kiss. Well, and then watching a ton of porn. And also stupid werewolves who seemed allergic to wearing shirts.

“Yup,” he said, popping the P. “I sure did. Figured it all out. No one is safe from the Stiles Love.”

Derek’s lips quirked, in what was almost a laugh. “Maybe that’s what the next wards we set up should be for.”


	7. Gags

“Oh man, another Tuesday, another kidnapping, am I right? Ow! Fuck you, asshole, that hurts!” Stiles yelped as harsh hands shoved him into the dank, moldy-smelling shed to discover that he’d accidentally found where Derek was being held captive.

“Holy shit, these guys are fucking sadists, aren’t they? Shooting me up with some kinda meth or magic truth serum whatzit so I can’t stop talking, and it’ll drive _you_ batshit crazy, right? Who the fuck thought they needed to gag you, anyway? Those jerks really do not know anything about you, do they? Like, have you ever talked, all strung up and electrocuted and tormented and shit? No. You do not talk. It’s like Derek Rule #1– No Talking.”

Stiles struggled against the ropes binding his hands behind his back, connected to the ones at his ankles. “Just like Stiles Rule #1 is Keep Talking Until You Can’t. Fuck, am I _hog-tied_? Is that what this is? Fuck you guys! That is just insulting, man. Or kinky. I’m going with insulting, though, because yeah. Not gonna think about the other option.”

He was sweating and twitching, blinking a lot, pissed off beyond belief, but not yet at the rage-stage that might actually help clear his mind enough to think of a solution. And he felt super sorry for Derek, chained up with another goddamned car battery attached to him, obviously hurting and unable to get away from Stiles’s incessant babbling, to say nothing of the actual physical pain, and fuck, of course he was saying all of this out loud too, right?

From the other side of the bars, Derek nodded. 

“And a fucking gag. It’s insulting, seriously. On so many levels. These guys are such jerks,” he said to Derek. “You’re not funny, assholes!” he yelled, in case their captors were listening.

“Dude, this is going to suck for you, sorry. I know I do this all the time to annoy you, but I am super sorry to do it when I can’t actually stop. That probably doesn’t make you feel any better, knowing that I do it on purpose sometimes, but that’s the best I’ve got right now. These guys suck. Like, they’re like mosquitoes. Annoying and maybe they have malaria or that other swamp-disease thing, but mostly, they just annoy the crap out of you and torment you. But like small torment, like Death by a Thousand Papercuts kinda thing. Every single thought I have is coming out of my mouth and whoo, let me tell you, Derek, it is zoomy and crazy in here, even without the drugs. Maybe not as bad as a few years ago, but shit, this is not going to be fun for you.”

“Not that I’m having the time of my life over here. I know, I know, it’s worse for you, all chained up and behind bars and electrocuted¬and seriously, why do they always gotta do that? Car batteries just seem so low-tech redneck loserish, right? At least fucking spring for a generator or something. It’s like they don’t think these things out at all. Which I guess is good for us, and why are you _never_ wearing a shirt when you get caught? Or do the bad guys just rip it off of you for some reason? Not that they need a reason because, dude, look at you, I mean, I’d rip it off too, but wow I did _not_ want to say that, assholes!”

He pressed his lips together, squirming against his ropes, making sounds like he was still talking behind closed lips which is exactly what was happening, but he couldn’t keep it up for long. “…I mean, I’m all about consent, right? Which I’d assume would be pretty important to you, with your past romantic history, to say nothing of all the times hunters have done this shit to you. So you probably wouldn’t consent because dude, how could you even possibly like kinky bondage sex when OH MY GOD PLEASE MAKE ME STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS!”

Derek’s mouth was impossible to read, distorted by the no-kidding-actual-red bandana he’d been gagged with, but his eyebrows were doing that thing somewhere between pained (actually in pain, right), and amused.

“I can’t… I’m sorry,” Stiles tried. “I’m just going to talk about food okay, because there are a lot of new restaurants lately and I would rather regale you with my nonexistent foodie blog entries than talk about sex with you, like ever ever ever, oh my God, so yeah, let’s talk about who has the best pie and how fucking tragic it is that I don’t really like curly fries anymore, to say nothing of Spaghetti-Os. So unfair. No one told me getting older kinda sucks….”

A couple of hours later, throat raw from ceaseless, helpless chatter, lips chapped, wrists and ankles bloody-raw from struggling, Scott was breaking Derek’s chains while Allison finished cutting through Stiles’s ropes. Freed, Stiles walked over to the defeated and handcuffed bad guys, and punched one of the flunkies who had tied him up in the stomach, hard.

“You can turn up the volume on my crazy any time you like, dickface, but no one fucking gags Derek Hale.”

***

Stiles made a horrible retching noise, lurched toward a nearby tree, and vomited all over the trunk. Blue, foamy slime dribbled down to the dirt, and he spat and moaned and generally made his displeasure known. To everyone. Within at least a mile.

“So gross,” he coughed out. “You don’t even know. It tastes like…. I don’t know. Blue evilness.”

“I can smell it,” Derek pointed out. “In about ten times as much sensory detail as you can. So while it’s not in my mouth, I’ve got a pretty good idea of how gross it tastes.”

“Bad.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed. “Glad it’s not me.”

“Jackass.” Stiles half-heartedly lobbed the tissue he’d been wiping his mouth with at Derek, but it didn’t even make it halfway. He gagged and spat a few more times, contemplated his sleeve and how much he’d liked this shirt, and then gave up and used it to get the rest of the slime off his mouth anyway. Maybe it wouldn’t stain. Much.

“No one mentioned that getting involved in the supernatural world was going to be so hard on my wardrobe,” he complained, as the turned to walk back to the road where their cars were parked.

Derek didn’t bother to stifle his derisive laughter, not even a little. “Your ‘wardrobe’ looks like it comes from the Dollar Store and Goodwill.”

“Who are you, Lydia? Frugality is important for those of us who didn’t inherit millions in bonds money. And I like my clothes; I don’t care what you think. Plaid is comfortable and colorful, and a classic design. Five hundred years of Scotsmen can’t be wrong.”

“Your fashion choices are an assault on the eyes of anyone who isn’t grey-scale colorblind.”

“Is that really even a thing? Or do you just mean dogs? Because you can say dogs, you know, it won’t nullify your entire life’s position against dog jokes. It’s just a fact, dude. Dogs existing and being canine isn’t implicitly an insult to your werewolfyness.”

“Actually, there have been some recent studies that indicate that dogs do see color. And some other mammals, too,” Derek said smugly. “So you can suck it.”

Stiles stopped cold. “Did you just… What?”

“Suck. It.”

Stiles blinked. “I have never heard you say that. Like _ever_ , you have never _EVER_ used one of the most common insults in modern slang, with an oral sex-related origin. You never say anything that could even slightly allude to sex. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’d feel better if I was alone in my apartment and you and your stench were somewhere else, far, far away.”

“Such a joker,” Stiles said with a snort of laughter. “You love me, admit it.”

“I’d like you more if you didn’t reek of… whatever that blue slime smells like. Decaying magic death.”

“Oh my god, shut up or I’m going to barf again,” Stiles groaned, feeling his stomach heave.

“If you make any more of that stuff, I’m going to either kill you or join you in puking,” Derek warned. “Seriously, that is one of the most foul things I’ve ever smelled.”

“No kidding, jerk, it’s in _my_ mouth!”

“Given all the gross things you put in your mouth voluntarily….”

Stiles stopped walking. “I honestly think you’re cursed, dude.”

“What? I’m fine,” Derek scoffed. “Why would you even think that?”

“You just alluded to me putting ‘gross things’ in my mouth, by which I can only assume you mean dicks. And/or semen. Or you’re talking about analingus, I guess, and yeah, possibly cunnilingus too, depending on how much of a prude you are and how much you know about my sex life. Regardless—you, Derek Hale, referred to me, Stiles, having sexy gross things in my mouth. Which yes, I have. All of the above. Yum,” he said defiantly.

“Huh.” Derek kept walking, forcing Stiles to scramble to catch up. “Maybe I did get some rebound from that hex on me or something. Thinking about you having sex isn’t making me want to hurl, like it usually does.”

Stiles reached out one hand and shoved Derek’s shoulder as hard as he could. It made no difference to Derek’s stride or balance at all, as usual. “Jerkface.”

“You’d know,” Derek answered, and stopped walking. “Oh my God, I just pictured you getting a cream facial. We are going straight to Deaton.”

Stiles would have answered, but he was too busy laughing, and then gagging and lurching over to a bush to puke again.


	8. Hangover

The sun streaming into Stiles’s bedroom was punishment. From a vengeful, angry god. Or devil, that would make more sense. Demons. Bad things that hated him. A _lot_ of bad things hated him.

He sent one hand out on a mission to find a pillow or blanket or anything cloth, to pull over his eyes. Nothing. He reached further, whimpering quietly when he continued to only feel the sheet he was lying on top of. One last, grand stretch of effort yielded success: he’d found something fabric. Triumph was his.

He whimpered again when whatever-it-was refused to move and fulfill its purpose of blocking the sunlight from his eyes.

“Let go of my shirt, Stiles,” came a booming, thunderous voice-of-God-to-Moses.

Stiles’s hand collapsed, forlorn, while the rest of him cringed away from the crashing reverberations inside his skull. He whined in pain, but the additional noise hurt so much that he stopped immediately and simply wallowed in silent misery until he could breathe again.

He tried to open the unlucky eye that wasn’t smashed into the pillow to avoid the sunlight, and managed a teensy sliver to squint out at the world. It was blue.

He made a small, quiet, inquisitive noise. Something warm and heavy fell on his arm, a weight that became comforting as some of the agony in his skull subsided. “Mmm. My favorite werewolfy trick. Faster than a drip of morphine.”

“Deaton says you can’t have any painkillers. Just chamomile tea and, uh, this,” Derek said. “You’ll have to sleep it off.”

“I feel like I went skydiving without a parachute. Did I OD on my meds or something? I can’t think,” he whined.

Derek’s hand on his arm drained off a bit more of the pain. “You and Lydia were working on finding the name of that demon, so we could banish it. Yeah, well, you summoned it to you, like an idiot.” 

Stiles didn’t need to open his eyes to feel the judgmental scowl. 

“Luckily you have enough protections around your house—although when and why you felt compelled to add a devil’s trap, I’ll want to hear more about later—that the demon couldn’t escape. Lydia was still on Skype, so she called us. When Kira and I got here, you were… There was all this swirling energy around you, like an aurora or an electric storm.”

There was a long enough pause that Stiles considered opening his eyes, but decided not to, and to poke Derek until he started talking again.

“Stop it, “Derek said, lightly smacking his hand away. “Kira tried to absorb the energy, but it was coming from you, you were pushing the demon through… something, a portal, I guess. And then it was gone and you collapsed.”

“Demon’s gone?” he asked, opening his eyes despite the hateful sunlight.

Derek nodded. “Yeah. Almost took you with him, though. You weren’t breathing and hardly had a pulse. What the fuck were you thinking, trying to do something like that? Have you been playing with magic?”

Closing his eyes again, Stiles nodded. “Since that storm where the power went out. Making light-balls and wind, just little stuff.”

“This wasn’t little. It was like a small, fierce tornado with lightning. You almost died, Stiles. That was your _life_ energy you used to shove it back to where it came from.”

“What, I was just supposed to hope someone came to my rescue? Make the demon a sandwich or something while we waited? It’s not like we planned for this.”

Not that there’d been much of a plan; he and Lydia still weren’t entirely sure the thing sucking all the juice out of forest critters was a demon, but it was their best guess. Unfortunately, debating what kind of demon it could be meant going through a lot of old books, and well, he must have said something he didn’t mean to. His Latin was still terrible.

The very loose idea had been to figure out what kind of demon it was, figure out how to trap it, then trap it and send it back to Hell. (Or another dimension. Which Hell might be, Stiles wasn’t sure yet). Lydia was going to come back home from Stanford in two days, after her exams, and they’d tackle it over the weekend. Oops.

Sounding resigned, Derek said, “Well, you lived. Do you want some tea?”

Tea was not his favorite thing, especially the stuff that tasted like powdered flowers. “Can I have honey and lemon in it?”

Derek snorted. “If I can find a lemon, sure. Think you can stand up to shower while I make it, or do you need help?”

Sitting up carefully, Stiles assessed his state. He’d learned over the years that there was little point in faking it around werewolves, and being rescued (twice!) while naked—after passing out in the shower—had really driven that lesson home. Concussions sucked ass.

“You saying I smell?”

Derek’s nose wrinkled. “Yes. You smell like ozone.”

“Huh. And that’s not normal?”

“Would I mention it if it was? It’s… acrid. Like ammonia.” There was a pause while Derek struggled with himself before he added, “Sometimes you smell like lightning storms, kind of sharp with a little burnt-sugar sweet element. Ozone is like if that scent turned wrong.”

“Oh yeah, well _you_ smell like…”

Derek raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I don’t know, okay? I ache everywhere, and my head feels like Scott used it for lacrosse target practice, and my brain isn’t working at full speed yet. Fuck off; I’m going to go take a shower.”

“Do you want me to make you that tea before or after I fuck off?”

Stiles stuck out his tongue as he heaved himself up from the bed. He probably would have fallen back over, if Derek hadn’t caught him with a firm hand around his arm. God, he was so pathetic. “Before, please?”

Derek snorted, but got up with him and led him to the bathroom. Stiles glared a little as he shut the door behind himself, calling “No, I’m not locking it. Yes, I’ll keep one on hand on the wall the whole time. You can go, Creeperwolf, unless you need to listen to me pee.”

He heard a slight chuckle, and the muffled sounds of Derek moving away to go downstairs. Stiles smiled ruefully, shook his head, and got into the shower. Aside from the killer headache and overall bone-deep exhaustion, he felt mostly fine now. Well, aside from that familiar tight feeling in his chest that had relocated from his pants a while ago, and he was continuing to ignore. It wasn’t exactly new, and it probably wasn’t fatal. Incurable though, most likely.

He’d probably miss it if it went away.


	9. Ironic

Stiles watched this weekend’s Werewolf Wrestling Smackdown training session, sitting off to the side as he always did, a stack of towels and water bottles at the ready. He yelled encouragement from the sidelines, heckling and instructing the rest of the pack in turns. He was essentially their towel boy, and it was obvious that he honestly still wasn’t sure why Derek and Scott insisted he be there just to watch every single week. It felt a little too much like high school sports, to be honest.

His own training sessions were on another night, just him and Derek and Scott. Scott was the one who acted as the towel boy on most of those nights, although at first Stiles suspected Scott was really there to make sure Derek didn’t break Stiles too badly.

Sweat dripped down Derek’s temple, his throat, his entire torso. Today was a no-claws-or-fangs day, and the betas fought dirty. All the werewolves did, of course, but the no-weapons rule meant they had to be extra creative. Erika always went for the balls. Boyd barreled people down like a freight train. Isaac had spent the last few months taking a martial arts class at the community college and was jumping and flipping around, popping up behind his opponents unexpectedly to push them off balance.

The smell of aggression was almost palpable as they fought, divided into teams of three with one alpha on each side.

Isaac leaped behind Scott and landed almost silently, but not enough to keep Scott from ducking down and sweeping out his own leg for a kick right to Isaac’s sternum.

“Your kung-fu is weak!” Scott and Stiles yelled at the same time, laughing, and Scott turned to to high-five Stiles.

Isaac leaped onto Scott’s back, grabbing him around the throat in a choke hold, cackling, “You didn’t call a time-out, idiot.”

Kira took the opportunity of Isaac’s distraction to whale on him with a tree branch she was using as an impromptu staff, and both wolves went down in a heap while Stiles laughed himself silly.

“Apex predators, my ass!” he snorted.

“Shut up,” yelled Boyd, as he tried to get Kira out of the way so Isaac could regain his feet.

He and Derek were the ones who most often remembered that teamwork was a thing they were trying to get better at during these little sessions. Erika and Scott both wanted to win their little free-for-alls, and Isaac and Kira were opportunists who didn’t really care about the outcome so long as they got in some decent damage. Still.

Stiles rolled his eyes and made a few notes for the postgame critique. After all this time, you’d think they’d have learned, but no. You would be wrong. If no one came up with a strategy and told the supernatural idiots what to do, made a plan for them, it was like this every time: a totally disorganized melee.

“You’re all a bunch of idiots!” he ranted. “I’m going to make you guys start playing board games, since you don’t seem to remember how to think before attacking.”

Derek glanced across the field at Stiles, who was still shaking his head as he typed notes into his phone. He smiled, dodging a kick from Erika and shoving her into a tree. He’d never say it out loud, but this was exactly why Stiles was there. Everyone knew humans were the real apex predators; with his intelligence–to say nothing of his nascent magical abilities–Stiles was the most dangerous of them all.


	10. Jaded/Kiss of Life

“Stupid fucking fairies! Stupid fucking Derek. Stupid fucking _me_ ,” Stiles huffed as he trudged uphill in the hot sun. It had only been a few minutes, and his shirt was sticking to his back already.

He and Derek had been playing Go with a new set, oh-so-generously given to them by the fairy prince, in return for a favor. It hadn’t exactly been much of a favor; Stiles had combined some topographical maps with maps of ley lines, so that Derek, Scott, and the prince could negotiate territory boundaries at the northern end of the Preserve. Apparently there was an overlap in that area with the fairy realm, and the contract with the Hale pack from a hundred years ago had expired on the lunar eclipse two months ago. The fairies were just now getting around to coming over to say “Hi, hey, you might have noticed that stuff keeps moving around – like trees and pathways and all these weird flowers popping up out of nowhere? Well, here’s why.” Anyway, it was super easy, the negotiations were simple, and the beautifully inlaid jade Go board had seemed kind of excessive, but Stiles knew better than to say no.

Of course it wasn’t just excessive–there had been more than a semi-spiteful twinkle in the prince’s eyes when he’d handed over the gift. Someone on their side clearly knew about the whole nogitsune adventure, and that Go was not a game with pleasant memories for Stiles.

Anyway, he had taken the opportunity to brow-beat Derek into working on strategy skills and insisted they spend an evening playing. Which was all well and good: Derek was learning how to think more than one step ahead, and Stiles was learning how to stop unpleasant memories from preventing him from thinking clearly. But when Derek made his first successful ladder attack, there was a swirling, nauseating sensation, and now Stiles was here in the middle of nowhere. Or at least he was definitely not anywhere he’d ever seen, and was pretty sure this was _not_ part of the world he was usually a resident of. The green of the grass being the same light-green jade color as the game board was a bit of a tip-off.

“Subtle, assholes!” he yelled, not at anyone visible.

The castle in the distance was at the top of the hill. It was hot, and he could feel that he had a sunburn by the time he got to the outer wall. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, and he had no clue what had happened to Derek, or if he was safely in his apartment, wondering where the fuck Stiles had disappeared to or what.

And now there was a moat. Like, seriously, a murky, unpleasantly smelly stream of dark water that appeared to encircle the castle. Annnndd now the water was moving! There was something in the water, and the ripples were getting bigger, because that something was getting closer. With a sudden flashback to the Mines of Moria scene in _Fellowship of the Rings_ , Stiles dashed across the unguarded drawbridge and inside the castle.

It was just deliriously fun to be a piece in someone else’s game. Again.

The entire place (palace?) seemed deserted. No one, dead or alive, challenged his presence or even broke the stillness. He didn’t feel like he was being watched, but of course that wasn’t an entirely reliable sensation; it wasn’t like _he_ had supernatural hearing or smelling, thank you very much. And he had no fucking idea why he was here or what he was supposed to do now that he was. Hang out in an empty castle? Wrestle with some tentacle-beast in the moat? No way in hell, fairy assholes.

Since no one was welcoming (or attacking) him, he figured he may as well look around; it wasn’t like he’d ever been in a castle before, unless the one at Disneyland counted, and he could hear Lydia’s voice in his head scoffing that no, it did not.

There was a kind of foyer area, a long hallway empty but for a smallish table. The table had a heavy black key ring, with a single skeleton key on it. It looked sketchy enough that he decided not to touch it, and opened the nearest set of double doors. The room was huge, probably taking up about half of the whole first floor of the castle, and was empty except for several white columns–too small to hide behind–and three ornately decorated royal thrones at the opposite end. He stood for a moment, trying to listen for anyone hiding behind the chairs, and decided there wasn’t; his own breathing echoed a bit, so anyone else’s would too.

The next set of doors off the hallway opened onto… a dining hall, apparently? But the chairs were easily twice as big as normal chairs, and he had to climb up onto one to see what was on the table–nothing, thank God, since he’d half expected to see a dead body. There was a huge, gold harp in the corner, which seemed weird.

Through the doors at the opposite end of the dining hall was the kitchen. It was mostly empty except for a few bowls, spoons, a rusty metal whisk, and a basket with some straw and a bunch of cracked-open, empty gold eggshells. Stiles wondered if all this stuff was actually gold, or spray paint, or… what was that called, filigree? Gold leaf? It was weird, was what it was, so he didn’t touch them either.

Upstairs he found a room with an honest-to-God spinning wheel–which he kind of wanted to check out because what the actual fuck. There were also a few wooden chairs, a mountain of straw that could possibly hide a body and he’d look through it later if he had to, and… A few spools of gold thread. Stiles was getting the distinct feeling that there was a theme here.

The next room held a contraption he had to stare at for several minutes before he figured out that it was a loom. There wasn’t any fabric, but there were lots of sewing tools and stuff, and a few sheets of paper with sketches of some kind of medieval-era men’s clothes. Or maybe Renaissance? Whatever, there weren’t any clothes in here, so clearly whoever had been weaving had taken the goods elsewhere.

Other rooms yielded a display of arms and armor: swords, pikes, lances, and suits of armor that were thankfully disassembled so no one could be hiding in them. Next was a small room almost entirely taken up by a huge round table, with twenty-five coats of arms around the edge. Stiles blinked at it a few times, took a closer look at the biggest pie-slice and its shield with three crowns, and sighed.

“Honestly, you guys? Could you be any more clichéd?” he asked the empty room.

At the end of the second storey hall was an arched doorway, which he could see from the windows led into a round turret. The door, the first one in the whole place, was locked. He rolled his eyes, scrubbed his hands over his face, and sighed again. “Fine,” he said, turning to retrace his steps and get the key from the table by the entrance. 

After a short detour to the kitchen for some water to drink–where he got to learn how a pump worked–he made his way back to the locked door, and opened it to find a spiraling staircase which presumably led to the top. Because of course.

On a scale of one to ten, he was zero surprised to find an ornate bed with lacey hangings in the room at the top, and Derek asleep on it.

“Come on, man,” he said, shaking Derek’s shoulder. “Nap time’s over, your valiant knight has found you. Get up.”

Derek failed to wake up.

Stiles shook him harder. “Wake up! Don’t make me punch you in the face, asshole. You know I’ll do it.” He felt Derek’s head, turning it side to side to check for blood or obvious injuries. Nothing. “Damnit. I am totally not feeling you up here, all right?” he said, before carefully and medically-professionally patting down Derek’s body to check for any other obvious reasons why he wasn’t waking up.

Nothing seemed to be wrong, aside from the obvious lack of consciousness. Stiles leaned over the bed, making sure he could feel Derek’s breath on his cheek, then slapped it lightly a few times.

“Derek! Come on. Shit. You need to wake up, dude! I don’t know where the hell we are, and while nothing seems dangerous right this second, I seriously doubt that’s going to last! Probably a dragon is going to show up any minute or something. So I’d really prefer that you be awake. This is no time for a nap, asshole, come on!”

There was no reaction.

Stiles paced across the room, thinking about his options and whether he was at the punch-Derek-in-the-face-until-he-wakes-up stage yet. An idea popped into his head–not a good idea, but an obvious one.

“Seriously?” he shouted. “You have got to be fucking kidding me….” He huffed out a breath, bent down, and kissed Derek on the forehead.

Nada.

Heaving another put-upon sign, he shook his head, and kissed Derek on the lips.

Still nothing.

“Well shit. I really thought that would work.” He sat down on the bed next to Derek, and took his hand, feeling for the steady pulse at his wrist. It was unnecessary, but reassuring nonetheless. “Come on, Derek, wake up. I’m going to seriously freak out soon if you don’t, and that’s never a pretty sight. There is nothing here, no one alive or dead–which, thank God for small favors, but still. Some sign of life would be nice, now that I finally found you. Wake up!”

Derek again failed to wake up.

“What the hell are you waiting for, fairy assholes? I fucking kissed him, what more do you want? I’m so not into this whole non-con, somnophilia thing, like, at all.”

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand. They sat in silence for a few moments before he started to ramble again.

“Derek. Please. You look pretty well rested, you’ve had a nice little nap while I strolled around looking for you, and now if you could wake up, that would be really great. I need you to wake up. I need you…” He sighed. “To be here with me. Don’t you want to get back home? I know it’s pretty fucked up back there, and it’s dangerous and has a whole shit-ton of bad memories, for you more than anyone else, but come on… Our world is better than this weird, empty fairy tale place, full of stupid asshat fairies who are probably going to show up and fuck everything up any minute now–God, what is with those guys?

“I can’t sit here and hold your hand for eternity, waiting for you. Come on, Derek. I’d try to drag anyone else down the stairs and outside, but there’s that _thing_ in the moat, and with our luck, we’d get eaten by it.

“I know you love the pack as much as I do, and you’ll be sorry if you sleep through their lifetimes, and I have no idea if time here is the same as at home or now, but odds are, it’s probably not. It never is in this kind of story. Don’t you want to get back and see everyone? They’ll miss you. I know I’d miss you. A lot.”

Stiles squeezed Derek’s his hand, and sighed. He was totally out of ideas. He bent over Derek again, whispered “Wake up,” and kissed his lips again.

Derek’s eyelids fluttered and slowly opened.

Stiles jerked back in surprise. “You have got to be kidding me,” he said, ignoring the pounding of his heart and heat in his cheeks. “Man, I _hate_ fairies.”

Derek blinked a few times, as Stiles got off the bed, then sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What? What’s going on? Did I fall asleep during our game?”


	11. Lethargy

“Go away, Stiles.” Derek’s voice was muffled by the blankets.

“Nope. You’ve been on that sofa for two days. Either get up and tell me what’s going on, or I’ll get the rest of the pack to come help me drag you to the vet.” (It would _never_ stop being funny that the werewolf doctor was a veterinarian. Ever. In fifty years, it would still be hilarious.)

“Get out of my house.”

Stiles sat down on the middle of the sofa, which was probably on top of Derek’s thighs. “Nope.”

One claw-nailed hand wiggled out from the blankets and swiped aimlessly, missing Stiles by several inches.

“Serious weaksauce, dude. That was less threatening than a sleepy kitten batting at a moth.”

The hand withdrew and was replaced by annoyed growls. Stiles could feel the vibrations.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said, grabbing the part of the blanket he wasn’t sitting on and yanking it off of Derek’s top half.

Red eyes glared at him.

Stiles rolled his. “Yeah, yeah. I’m very intimidated, Mister Alpha Wolf.” He looked Derek over. “You don’t appear to be injured. Are you sick? You’re not supposed to be able to get sick. Were you cursed? Poisoned? Are you dying?”

Derek made a face, but shook his head.

“So what, is this a moon thing? Are you having some kind of wolfy midlife crisis because you’re over twenty-five and don’t have puppies yet? Are you sad because you have to share your territory with Scott and you want to pee all over his house? Again?”

Derek halfheartedly tried to shove Stiles off his legs. Since he could easily have accomplished that with every bone in his body broken, neither one of them were buying it. He sighed and let his arms flop back down like… dead fish.

“You know I’m going to sit on you until you tell me what’s going on in that furry little head. Are you depressed? Emo? Did Peter make fun of you for not being as scary as he is? Are you pouting? You know there’s a difference between scary and fucking psycho, right?”

“Stiles! Go. The. Fuck. Away.”

Stiles failed to go away, or even get off of Derek. He twisted his mouth, thinking. “It’s not any of the anniversaries, is it?” he asked, more serious. “The fire, Laura, any of those?”

“No.” Derek closed his eyes and twisted his body to face the back of the sofa, dislodging Stiles from his perch. Mostly. “I’m just… tired.”

He sat back down in the crook of Derek’s knees. There was no way Derek was tired enough to justify this much slothfulness. But Stiles wasn’t so good with feelings. Well, he’d gotten better at them, he supposed, but he was not good with crying. Not that Derek was crying, thank God. But Stiles could handle depression, if that’s what this was, and it seemed like it. He could cheer Derek up. Totally.

Except, he thought, closing his mouth on whatever stupid thing he’d been about to say. Except sometimes _he’d_ been mopey-depressed, and having people try to cheer him up had been fucking annoying, because it wasn’t like he was down for stupid, silly reasons or anything. And even if someone was moody, they didn’t usually like being cajoled out of it; he and Scott had had several fights over the years because of that. He sighed. What would his dad do?

Stiles rested his hand on Derek’s hip as he sat and thought for a few minutes. A glance at the kitchen confirmed that Derek had eaten semi-recently, at least, so soup or other comfort food wasn’t needed. The guy just seemed to want to curl up in a little cave, a wolf den. Stiles could relate.

He patted Derek’s hip and got up. “I’m going to go in your bedroom, okay?” For someone who had been constantly jumping in and out of teenage boys’ bedrooms, Derek was surprisingly touchy about anyone going into his space uninvited.

Taking the return grunt as approval, Stiles went upstairs. He tried to be quiet, but undoubtedly the sounds of furniture being moved and other stuff were audible to Derek. He adjusted the curtains to let in only the slightest sliver of light and the window behind them to air out some of the musty smell, and went back downstairs.

“Come on,” he said, slowly pulling the blanket off Derek.

“Why?”

Stiles sighed. “Just come on.”

Derek scrunched up his face for a moment, then visibly decided it wasn’t worth arguing and followed Stiles to his bedroom. He took a moment to look at his bed, then turned to Stiles, raising an eyebrow for an explanation.

Stiles rubbed his palms together, suddenly a little nervous. “Well, uh. Dark and cozy can be, um, comforting. And it seemed like that was what you were going for on the sofa? And so I thought this might be better,” he said, gesturing at the impromptu blanket fort he’d rigged up over Derek’s king-size bed with the blankets and pillows and chair from the spare bedroom.

“I’m not a child.”

Stiles sighed. “Duh. Neither am I, actually. Just… get in. Try it.”

Derek made the _I’m too tired to argue with you_ face again, but deigned to crawl in anyway. Stiles followed him. It was a big bed; there was plenty of space so it wasn’t that weird, really. They shifted around, bunching up blankets, moving pillows, and generally settling in. Derek seemed to be relaxing, so that was good. It was dim and cozy, with the occasional current of fresh air slipping under the blanket canopy to keep it from getting too hot or claustrophobic. Everything was in shadows, but not dark, and Stiles felt drowsy, safe.

“My mom used to make blanket forts with me when I was upset,” he said.

Derek nodded. “Laura and I would crawl under my parents’ bed when we were little, when people were fighting and it got loud. It was really high off the ground, and we’d take their pillows. It was cozy.” He paused for several minutes. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Slowly, carefully, Stiles slid his hand over to reach Derek’s arm, then hand, and wrapped his fingers around Derek’s. Stiles’s heartbeat was faster than it should have been for such a simple, comforting gesture, but whatever. Neither of them said anything for a long while, drifting in their own thoughts but tethered together.

“Why do people keep using me?” Derek asked, breaking the long silence. “Am I that gullible?”

Stiles wanted to scoff and argue, but the hesitant words and soft darkness had him thinking about his response first. It _was_ kind of a recurring theme in Derek’s life, and a valid question. “Predictable maybe. You’re loyal and moral, and it’s not hard to guess your moves. S’why we’ve been working on that. But no, you’re not trusting enough to be gullible,” he answered with maybe too much honesty.

They both pondered that for a while before Stiles added, “A lot of the times you’ve been manipulated or used, it was in ways where it didn’t even matter what you did.”

Derek made a disgusted noise. “So I’m a damsel in distress. A faceless pawn.”

“No, it’s just not really about you… like, at all. A lot of people only see you as the role you fill, not as a person. Talia’s son. A naïve teenager, an animal. A weak new alpha. A sexy hunk of manmeat… Part of the Hale pack. My… friend.”

He hadn’t meant to pause there, really, but he couldn’t think of a word that felt right. _Friend_ was so inadequate. He squeezed Derek’s hand.

“I know it sucks when people just see you as an object, a tool, and use your good qualities against you. But it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. It just happens a lot because we live in this hellhole,” Stiles joked. “Even if you were just a boring old human in a big city, you’d have to put up with it anyway, with your stupid face. And body.”

Derek snorted, but it wasn’t a happy sound.

Squeezing Derek’s hand again, Stiles rolled onto his side, facing him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Derek moved too, so they were face to face in the shadows.

“I see you,” Stiles said, looking into Derek’s eyes. “Your pack sees you. Not just this.” He waved his hand a little around Derek’s face and chest. “And not just the _grr-argh_ , alpha eyes. We see _you_.”

Derek held his stare without blinking. It was hard to read what was going on in there, and Stiles was starting to feel uncomfortably exposed, when Derek cupped the back of his neck. And then Derek was pulling him forward, and they were kissing. Not a hesitant or tentative kiss, just solid and _there_. With a hint of searching, maybe? Whatever the question was, the answer was _yes_.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stiles repeated, his eyes still shut, their lips still brushing. “Yes.”


	12. Manscaping

“Huh,” Stiles said, staring at Derek’s chest without meaning to, as they stripped off their muddy clothes in Stiles’s laundry room.

Derek glanced down at his chest, then back up at Stiles. “What?”

“When did you stop waxing?”

“I never waxed.”

Stiles raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You so totally did. When I first met you, and you were ‘working out’ all the time with no shirt so you could intimidate me and Scott? There was no hair there, my fuzzy wuzzy bear friend.”

The tips of Derek’s ears turned pink. “I did not wax.”

“Then you shaved. Or used a depilatory, or whatever. You removed hair from your chest–and abs–apparently. You _manscaped_!”

Derek sighed, clearly recognizing a losing battle. “Yes. I did. And you are correct in your visual observation that now I do not. Can we move on?”

“Uh, no! Have you met me? We can’t move on! I need more information.”

Derek scrubbed a hand over his face. “Why? You used to give yourself a horrible buzz-cut every few weeks. Now you do not. Do we have to discuss it? No. And you know why not? Because I don’t care!”

“Ah, but that’s the difference between you and me,” Stiles argued. “I care about everything. You never know when some little detail will be horrifyingly important. I can’t not notice. And once I notice, I can’t just let it go without knowing why. And now I’ve noticed,” he flailed his hand at Derek’s chest, “That! Hair. There. And I need to know why there is hair there, when there was no hair there before.”

“Stiles,” Derek said in a very somber tone, “when you get to a certain age, some changes will begin to happen to your body. You’ll get taller and smellier. You’ll start to notice girls–”

“And/or boys,” Stiles interrupted, grinning.

“Yes, and/or boys,” Derek allowed. “And you’ll grow hair in places where you didn’t have any before. Face, groin, armpits, chest, all over.”

“It’s caused by androgens, you know, not age. But I’m glad to see you’ve finally hit puberty. I was beginning to wonder when werewolves finally began to show signs of maturing.”

Derek laughed as he threw the shirt he’d been holding at Stiles. “Shut up, brat.”

“Ugh! And there’s the smelliness,” Stiles said, laughing as he pulled Derek’s sweat-drenched shirt off his face.

“Seriously?”

“Well, no, actually. You never really reek like the others do. _Did_. Most of the teenage-boy-stink has gone away over the years, thank god. Your pack is really growing up,” he added, wiping an imaginary tear.

“No kidding,” Derek said, giving Stiles’s own bare chest a lingering look. “You didn’t used to have hair, there, either.”

“Aw, you noticed!” Stiles grinned as he scratched his hand through the oval of fluff on his sternum. “And it’s all growing the right ways, too.”

Derek’s eyebrows were a combination of confusion and judgment. “What?”

“Chest hair. It typically grows following mathematical field vectors; isn’t that cool? The stuff above the nipples grows up and below grows down. Which is why there’s what weird line here, where it looks empty,” he illustrated, dragging his finger across his chest.

“Mine doesn’t do that.”

Stiles shrugged. “Yours spirals in and up, clockwise on the left and counter-clockwise on the right, and then up toward your collarbones. Triangle, not oval. Also very common.”

“Spend a lot of time studying chest hair, do you?

“I got tired of twink porn pretty fast.”

Derek snorted, trying not to laugh.

“What? With you guys around all the time, twinks just look skinny and vulnerable. I can’t look at people and not think of how long they’d last in a fight. And that’s just distracting, when you’re, you know... taking care of business,” he grinned, making the universal handjob gesture.

Derek nodded. “Mm. My problem with twinks is how young they seem. Thank god you don’t look like that anymore.”

“No? I’m still all pale and skinny… Aside from my very manly patch of chest hair, I mean,” Stiles said, touching it proudly.

Derek took a few steps forward. “You’re strong. Not vulnerable,” he said, lightly tracing his fingers through the patch of hair, as Stiles’s hand fell away. “And there’s nothing childish about you.” He paused. “Well. Nothing _physically_.”

“Oh, ha ha. You love my brain.”

“Sometimes,” Derek conceded, trying not to smile. His fingertips left the patch of fuzz and traced along the firm curves of Stiles’s pectoral muscles.

Stiles moved closer, too, until he could feel the heat radiating from Derek’s body. “You know where else there’s hair that didn’t used to be there?” he asked, with a cocky grin.

This time Derek laughed, full and loud, before he schooled his expression back to normal. “No, Stiles, tell me. Where else have you managed to grow body hair?” They shared an amused look for a moment. “Not your arms,” he said, flattening his hands and moving them to feel the shape of Stiles’s biceps. “Not your back,” as he reached around to stroke down his shoulder-blades. “Legs?” he asked, hands resting at Stiles’s waist as he glanced down at the jeans that obscured his view.

“Getting warmer,” Stiles teased, as he gently touched Derek, mapping the whorls of his chest hair, and then dragging his fingertips down the center to stop at Derek’s navel and tap one finger suggestively.

“Mmh, this,” Derek agreed, tracing a line inward across the waistband of Stiles’s jeans. “I did notice that it went from a faint deer trail to a fully-marked out bike path, over the last year or so.”

Stiles snorted. “I can’t believe you just called me a bike; that was totally an accident, wasn’t it? Don’t lie.”

“It was an accident.” Derek’s thumbs traced the shape up and then down, a thin arrow from Stiles’s belly button down to the top of his waistband. Deliberately, he slid both thumbs underneath.

“Better to be on more equal footing anyway, I think,” Stiles said, a slight note of uncertainty in his voice, as he hooked his thumbs into Derek’s beltloops. “First times are awkward.”

“I don’t mind showing you the ropes,” Derek teased.

“Shut up, loser,” Stiles returned, jerking Derek closer, torsos pressed together, lips hovering close. He hesitated.

“What?”

Stiles cleared his throat. “Well. Uh. _I’ve_ kissed _you_ twice now. It’s your turn?”

Derek’s lips quirked into a slight smile, closing the distance between them, only to jerk back a moment later. “Twice?”

“Well. Uh. More, actually?”

“What?” Derek demanded, stepping back. “Day before yesterday, in my bed. And?”

“There was that thing with the fairies, that you don’t remember? Sleeping Beauty? Oh my god, do you think I’ve been molesting you or something?”

“No.” Derek’s eyebrows disagreed with his words. “Well. I only remember the one time, okay?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I had to wake you up, dumbass. Like in the _fairy_ tale. With a kiss.”

“A kiss?”

“Fine.” Stiles signed. “A few kisses, because it had to be a ‘proper’ kiss, because fairies suck balls, oh my god, can we just get to the kissing part now, in the present? Please? I don’t think I can take much more of this UST.”

“Uhst?”

“Unresolved sexual–you know what, just come here,” Stiles groaned, jerking Derek forward and planting his mouth decisively on Derek’s, grace and finesse be damned.

Derek’s hands cupped Stiles’s face, steadying the kiss, calming the frantic edge of nerves that had been the impetus for so much chatter. The energy thrumming through both of their bodies slowed, caught in the moment. Lips pressing, hands gentle on each others’ bodies, mouths barely parting. The moment stretched out like a thread of syrup, then pooled and grew as if the syrup was puddling on top of a stack of pancakes.

Stiles’s stomach growled loudly, starting them both. He laughed against Derek’s mouth. “Fucking hell, I’m so hungry. Weren’t we supposed to be getting cleaned up and going out for breakfast?”

“Originally, yes. That was the plan. I was just following your lead.”

“Hmm,” Stiles said, filing that away for later. He gave Derek a long, thoughtful look, and made a decision. “You go shower first, since you’re fast. Make some coffee while I shower. Then IHOP.”

“Okay,” Derek said, seeming a little disappointed, but willing to let Stiles call the shots. As usual. “And then?”

“Resolution,” he answered, eyes sparkling. “We can compare whether trimming the underbrush really _does_ make the trees look bigger.”


	13. New Moon

“Goddammit, why does it always have to be the moon? Werewolves, kanimas, witches.... Why is it never the sun? I like the sun; you can _see_ in the sunlight.”

“Exactly,” said Derek as they crouched behind a bunch of broken pallets in the hopefully empty warehouse. 

“If you say one word about prey...” Stiles grumbled. “I want night vision goggles, Richboy. Add that to my birthday list.”

“Noted.”

“Also what is it with evil things hating sex? I thought that was just a stupid horror movie convention, an easy way to see some boobs to break up the gore, but god damn. Evil really _is_ a huge cockblock.”

Derek huffed a laugh.

“I don’t remember it being so fucking dark last new moon, either.”

“Pretty sure that’s because of the chimera. Which means it’s not that far away. Which means you might want to shut up,” Derek said in a loud whisper.

“I’m going to kill that thing deader than dead. It interrupts our first-date evening, and then it doesn’t even follow the rules about chimeras as laid out in so many gaming rule books, and now it’s got the nerve to fucking borrow my dad’s face and voice….”

“Which part of ‘shut up, or the bad thing will find us and kill us’ is the part you don’t understand?”

Stiles kicked Derek’s leg. “At least it doesn’t seem to–” a big whoosh of flame lit up the corner of the warehouse diagonal to their hiding spot–“breathe fire.” Stiles sighed and refused to meet Derek’s scowl. “Sorry. Yes, I should know better. I suck.”

“Have you thought of a plan yet, Genius, for killing something immortal ‘deader than dead’?”

“Still working on it,” Stiles said, as he pulled out his phone to check for replies to his call for help.

“Could you hurry?”

“Lydia thinks it’s really immortal and has to be banished to another realm. Thorne thinks it may be vulnerable when it’s wearing the human face, instead of the goat or lion. Deaton and Scott want to capture it to study.”

“Did they miss the part where it has wings and talons, plus a scorpion tale, and _breathes fire_?”

“No, Scott’s super excited. He always liked the mixed-species monsters in D&D.”

Derek pulled Stiles further back behind the crates they were hiding behind, as it swooped overhead. “That’s incredibly interesting and all, but how do we _kill it_?”

“Kira suggests beheading. Lydia and Thorne are voting for banishing, as if it was a demon. I think that sounds safer. I don’t want to get close enough to behead it, what with the talons and the flying and the fire-breathing and the huge fucking scorpion stinger, you know? But I personally think running would be the best course of action here, live to fight another day, yadda yadda. You?”

Stiles finally looked up from his phone to see Derek’s face, set in the fixed expression that meant he was scared and they were truly fucked. “Don’t think that’s an option, now that the whole place is on fire.”

“Well, shit.” There was a silence, broken only by the crackle of flames as the rest of the warehouse began to burn.

“Stiles, are you in here?” Sherriff Stilinski called. “The fire brigade is on its way. Let me help you get out of here, son.”

“Nice try,” Stiles said under his breath, not moving. “Hasn’t been called a ‘fire brigade’ in a century, idiot.”

“Come on, Stiles, are you hiding in here? I don’t want you to get hurt. You’re scaring me.”

There was another whoosh as a tall stack of wooden pallets caught fire, and flames started spreading across the support beams of the ceiling. 

“Stiles, where are you? Can you hear me? You’re all I have left, son. Help me find you, Stiles, please.”

Derek clamped a hand over Stiles’s mouth before he even got it all the way open to yell back at the chimera. “It’s not your dad. You know he’s safe at home. Take a deep breath, and don’t let it distract you from getting us out of here.”

The air was getting smoky enough to make Stiles’s eyes burn. “Even if I could banish this thing by myself, there’s still the fire. We need to get out of here, like now.” He bit his lip and struggled to ignore the sound of his father yelling in pain as the chimera pretended the fire was burning him.

He took a deep breath. “Okay, remember that time you punched through the wall of a bank vault? Think you can punch our way out of here? I don’t even think these are very thick, so you do that, and I’m going to try something I’ve been working on, and we’re going to run like hell.”

Derek nodded, waited for Stiles to nod back, and then there was a huge crash as Derek plowed through the wall, concrete smashing with a tremendous noise, while Stiles did something that looked an awful lot like the Invisible Woman’s shield trick, and they ran like hell.

***

“Ow,” Stiles complained as Derek applied disinfectant to the cuts he’d gotten while hastily following Derek out their impromptu exit. “That one’s deep.”

“Yeah. You need to see a doctor?”

Seated on the bathroom counter, Stiles shook his head. “Nah. I think it was just from wood, not rebar, and I had my tetanus shot last year.” There was a pause while Derek got out the bandages and started patching him up. “Not sure if that was a bummer of a first date, or just about typical for our relationship so far.”

Derek snorted. “Supernatural monsters, emotional manipulation, running for our lives, carrying your injured body back home–sounds pretty typical to me.”

“But it started off so well,” Stiles moaned.

It seriously had. They’d gone out for Italian food at a place that wasn’t too nice but not fast food either, had a decent conversation that was only a little awkward because they were on a date. Then Stiles had pushed Derek up against the car to “pay him back” in return for Derek buying dinner, and their kisses had gone from _thank you_ to _OMG fuck me, now, right now, yes, please_ in just a few minutes. Stiles had his hands under Derek’s shirt, and Derek had surprised him by sliding a hand down the back of Stiles’s jeans.

And then both of their phones had chirped with the Serious Emergency alert that meant _Drop What You’re Doing And Answer Because Someone Is About to Die, And You Might Be Next if You Ignore This, I Mean It, Scott_. It still took them both a few moments to register the sound and accept it as reality, and if Stiles had rubbed his hard-on against Derek’s thigh while they’d fumbled for their phones without untangling, well, who could blame him?

“Our lives suck,” he whined, leaning his head forward on Derek’s chest. “I was totally going to sex you up, so good. I was going to do all the things, any of the things, and I don’t mean to be immodest, but I’m actually really good at sex. Have had no complaints so far, always willing to take direction, 87.6% of all kinks get a huge thumbs-up and I’m willing to discuss the remaining 12.4%.”

Derek laughed. “I’ll be sure to leave you a review on Yelp, after.”

“But now all I want to do is shower, eat comfort-food dessert like tapioca or something, and cuddle, and sleep for a billion hours,” Stiles continued, manfully ignoring the sarcasm.

“Yeah. We still smell like smoke.”

Stiles nodded. Shitty emotional feelings all around then. Stiles hadn’t been able to relax until he’d talked to his dad, and Derek was on edge from almost being trapped in a burning building. Fun times in their heads, all around.

“Do-overs? Or we could shower together?” he suggested, trying to muster up the energy to get back into date-plus-sexytimes mode.

The outer corners of Derek’s lips lifted a tiny bit as he leaned forward and gave Stiles a gentle kiss. “Do-overs, I think. I wanted the first time to be… I don’t know. Not just a quickie.”

Stiles tried not to go all heart-eyes at that, but apparently failed since Derek laughed at him.

“New moons mean new beginnings, right?”

Stiles nodded. “Although typically that’s the growing moon; the dark moon is considered a bad time to do anything magical.”

The corners of Derek’s mouth lifted into a smile as he leaned forward to kiss Stiles again. “Well then. Clearly we got what we deserved, going out for a first date on the dark moon.”

“Are you saying it’s going to be _magical_ , the first time we fuck?” Stiles asked, wiggling his eyebrows and leering.

Derek rolled his eyes, then moved in for another, longer, much _much_ filthier kiss, that left Stiles’s stomach feeling like Jell-O and everything from his navel to his knees throbbing with arousal. “Oh, Stiles, you have no idea,” he murmured.


	14. Overstated

The rimming was pretty fucking amazing. Like, Stiles had been rimmed before, and yeah, he _really_ fucking liked it, okay? But this? This was beyond _like_ and more into that mindless zone where he couldn’t make words happen and he didn’t know if he wanted to keep going like this, never have it end, never-ever, fuck yes, _please_. Or if he actually wanted Derek’s dick in his ass, like _now_.

He was pretty sure—objectively—the noises he was making were probably embarrassing, since they were somewhere between gasps and grunts, with a higher-pitched long warbling moan every now and then. And he was covered in sweat, and yes, bent in half on his knees, one hand helpfully holding one butt-cheek aside, and the other clenched around the bed-frame to anchor him against the onslaught of sensation before he entirely shook apart.

Derek had been doing this for long enough that Stiles wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it seemed like a lot, probably. He hadn’t exactly _rushed_ to getting his tongue all up in there, but he’d had a goal, a plan, and Stiles _did_ like to encourage Derek when he thought ahead.

Right now, though, Stiles was definitely in that zone between feeling unbelievably fucking good, but not actually sure if he was going to come just from this. He hadn’t ever before, just from rimming, but he’d never had anyone do it this enthusiastically, or this long, either. He felt like he’d been on the edge of coming for ages now, just waiting for something to tip him over. One more lick, one more probe of Derek’s tongue, one more obscene slurp, one tight squeeze of Derek’s hand on his ass.

Derek paused for a moment, and Stiles whined, beyond caring how needy he sounded and just wanting to make it clear that he objected to stopping and might in fact strangle Derek if he didn’t get back in there _right now_.

But suddenly there were _fingers_ pressing in deep, wonderfully long and thick, unerringly nudging against his prostate, and a hand around his dick and “I… Derek… Oh god,” he groaned as he came. It felt like the sensation spread from his dick and ass all the way down to his toes and up to his hair, every goddamned _cell_ in his body tingling as he helplessly jerked in response to Derek’s fabulous fingers, barely moving but enough to set off unending earthquakes.

Derek chuckled a bit breathlessly, but didn’t stop. He kept Stiles on the edge, doing something magical with his fingers inside Stiles, until Stiles wasn’t sure if his orgasm ever stopped, or if this was a different one. Every. Single. Time. More come leaked out of his overstimulated dick with every crest of sensation, and his face was covered with sweat and probably actual tears because he was going to _die_ from this, and fuck yes, it would be totally worth it.

“Can I?” Derek asked, and it sounded like it was coming from far away, and just the sound of Derek’s voice made another shudder wrack through him. Words were not even a little possible, but Stiles tried to nod as he reached back and grabbed whatever part of Derek that was and pulled him forward.

“Yeesss….” Derek hissed as he pressed his cock deep into Stiles, making him moan and shiver again. Derek thrust a few times, not many, it seemed, before burying his face in Stiles’s nape and groaning as he pressed in deep, deeper, and just a little more, as he came inside Stiles.

There were a few minutes of shudders and panting like they’d run a marathon with a sprint at the end before Stiles re-gained the ability to control some of his body.

“Off. Heavy,” he mumbled.

Derek took a few more breaths before slowly rolling to the side, as if he wasn’t entirely back inside his own body, either. He was kind enough to help Stiles unfold his now-numb legs and stretch them both out. “The way you smell when you come….”

Stiles huffed. “I’m drenched. Like, literally. I’m covered in my own come,” he complained. Not exaggerating though: the bed was soaked, probably from sweat but not at all entirely, and Stiles’s entire stomach, chest, and thighs were covered in what felt like a _gallon_ of come.

Derek made a noise of agreement that sounded happy, the smug asshole.

Stiles huffed, but fell asleep before any words left his mouth.

*****

“I didn’t think the sex would be that good.”

Stiles smacked Derek on the shoulder and rolled on top of him to glare. They’d slept for a while, showered the truly incredible amount of fluid off of Stiles, raided the kitchen, and changed the sheets. And then fucked again. It was only very slightly less amazing than the first time.

“You have occasionally been known to exaggerate,” Derek pointed out.

“Creative license. Hyperbole, maybe.”

“Lies.” There was a long pause. “I give you 4 stars out of 5,” Derek said.

Stiles sat up and gaped at Derek in outrage. “Four! Why?”

Derek gave him a look. “Property damage was not insignificant.”

“Okay, look, you are the one who destroyed the sheet,” Stiles argued. He poked Derek’s sternum when he started to protest. “I saw those rips from your claws. And I think you shoulder at least half the blame for the wet spots.”

“More like drenched spots.”

Stiles snorted at Derek’s smug tone. “Well. Yes. They were fairly saturated. Still, the sheets? Mostly your fault.”

Derek’s eyes twinkled with a repressed smile. “How did it go from half my fault to mostly? No, never mind; I wasn’t even thinking of the sheet when I started this.”

There was a slight pause.

“Okay. I owe you a lamp.”

“And nightstand,” Derek added.

“Yes. And a nightstand.”

“And alarm clock.”

“Who even has an alarm clock anymore?” Stiles protested.

“Well not me, apparently.”

“All right, all right. I’ll even get you some new pint glasses, as a gesture of goodwill, for all the ones I’ve broken over the years.”

Derek snorted. “If you start trying to replace everything you’ve broken, you’re going to need to get another job.”

Stiles took a moment, then licked his lips, smirking. “Sex worker? I bet I could trade sex for home furnishings.”

Derek snorted and pulled Stiles closer. “Pretty sure you already have.”


	15. Purple

“This is not a place I expected to ever be again,” Stiles noted as he slid down the wall, butt hitting the ground as he cradled his head in his hands.

“No sleeping,” Derek said, poking him firmly.

“I know, jeez! I’m just… resting my eyes.”

Derek snorted. “No way do I trust that, now that you’ve conveniently ‘lost’ the amulet Deaton made.”

Stiles grumbled. “I lose things! Not everything is nefarious.” Derek turned and gave him a significant look. “Fine, many things are nefarious, but I swear, I’m just kind of a spaz, still, and you know this. I lose things. Even important things.”

“Not your phone,” Derek pointed out. “You’ve never misplaced your phone for more than six hours, in the four years that I’ve known you. You’ve lost your Jeep more often than that.”

“Well, yeah, but my phone… that’s practically a body part,” Stiles defended.

“Speaking of body parts you might lose,” Derek grumbled as he turned and started making his way to the back of the elementary school. “When Deaton gets home, you are getting that sigil tattooed, no matter how ugly you think it is.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at Derek’s back as he got up and began to follow. “Are you sure we can’t turn on a flashlight? In the interest of helping me stay awake?”

“Sure, let’s turn on _all_ the lights and alert security that there’s been another break-in, at the same school where the kindergarten classroom was recently _blown up_. I’m sure they’ll understand that one of the intruders just needed some light to stay awake while they hunt for a demon-banishing book in the elementary school library. People in this town are so reasonable.”

“All right, damn. What crawled up your ass?” Stiles muttered.

Derek growled.

Oh right. Stiles had crawled up Derek’s ass. Except that Stiles hadn’t been home, and the nogitsune had been driving his body, and that was decidedly non-consensual in Derek’s eyes. In Stiles’s too, of course, since he was both super not okay with the nogitsune being back and possessing him, but also extra pissed off that it had managed to coax Derek into letting him top, which Stiles had been working up to but hadn’t quite managed. Evil mother-fucking demons.

“We are _totally_ destroying it this time. And if it can’t be destroyed, then we’re sending it to another plain of existence where it can’t come back from. Like Hell.” There was a moment of two of silence before Stiles wondered, “What do you think Hell is like, for demons? Like, would it be somehow more full of horrors than humans have imagined Hell to be? Or would it be like rainbows and bunnies and balloons and cupcakes? What would be more torturous, for demons?”

Derek snorted his _you’re funny but I’m not encouraging you_ snort and said nothing.

“Like if someone replaced your broody black leather jacket with a shiny pink one, like the ladies from _Grease_. It would instantly make you explode.”

“Remember the part about sneaking around where you try to be quiet so the security guards don’t hear you, and you don’t get arrested?”

Stiles made a face and pointedly said nothing for the rest of the “sneaking part” of the walk to the library. Derek turned and gave Stiles an expectant look. Stiles made a fake _I have no idea what you want from me_ face.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Pick the lock, Stiles.”

“Oh, is it okay to talk again now? We’re done being sneaky?”

“You know, there’s a reason people can’t immediately tell you’re being possessed by an asshole trickster demon. Not until the explosions and murdering start.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Stiles was pleased to see Derek’s eyes crinkle with a tiny smile at their inside-joke. But the man did have a point. Stiles had long suspected that the nogitsune had chosen him, and stayed with him, because of certain aspects of his personality. It wasn’t a comfortable bit of insight, but that didn’t make it less true.

The lock gave with a tiny click, and Stiles stood back to gallantly let Derek enter first. The room had that dusty, old-books smell that libraries always have, but the shelves only came up to about mid-chest height. There were globes and cardboard displays on top of the shelves, computers along one wall, and an honest-to-God card catalogue on another, with a poster explaining what this bit of arcane furniture had been used for.

Derek stood motionless for a moment, and then took a few hesitant steps to his right. “It used to be on a shelf over here.”

Stiles went over and crouched down to peer at the book titles. “We’re in the board-books section, dude. The elusive, mystical demon-banishing magic book is an ages-five-and-under board book?”

Derek gave Stiles one of those looks. “No. I said it _used_ to be over here. They’ve clearly reorganized.”

“Oh, you think so? In the last fifteen years, they’ve moved a few things around? How inconsiderate.”

Derek ignored him and turned to the non-fiction section, and hesitated. “All of these books smell pretty new. The one I remember was kind of old when I was reading it. I didn’t think about the fact that they might have gotten rid of it. I guess there’s probably a lot of turn-over in a kids’ library….”

Stiles grinned. “Ah, but I know where they keep the old books that they’ve weeded out, before the annual book-sale. I had a _lot_ of detentions in this room.”

“You? Detention? I’m shocked.”

Stiles pretended he hadn’t heard that, and went to the desk in the corner, more specifically to the door behind it. He got out his lock-picks again, and in a few minutes it was open. The waft of old-book-smell was so strong he sneezed.

“If they haven’t sold it, it’ll be in there. Otherwise we’re screwed. But they don’t get rid of anything that doesn’t sell, like ever. I found some _Dick-and-Jane_ books from the 1950s, once”

“I don’t want to know what you were doing poking around the locked storage closet of the school library, do I?”

“I was helping the librarian, Mrs… Something, during my detentions, thank you very much. And she’d let me take a book from here, if I didn’t annoy her too badly.”

Derek choked back a laugh. “So I’m guessing this happened, what, once?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and he shoved Derek forward, and closed the door behind them. He turned on his flashlight app, and gestured for Derek to do the same. “What are we looking for? What’s the title? Or author, or anything?”

Derek was silent. “It’s purple.”

“What?”

There was a resigned sigh. “The cover is purple, okay? The whole spine, I think, and most of the cover. It was with the mythology books and folk tales, when I was a kid. But I don’t think these are organized in any way at all.”

“Nope,” Stiles sighed, and sat down. “I’ll start down here, you do those ones.”

They scanned through the shelves, most of them double-stacked, stirring up dust and trying not to sneeze too often. They found various collections of fairy and folk tales, some children’s versions of Greek mythology, but no books that Derek recognized. By the time Stiles’s butt started to go numb from sitting on the cold tiles, they’d wasted over an hour and come up with a whole lot of nothing.

He stood up, stretched, and tried to rub some feeling back into his ass.

Derek glanced over, lingered a moment, and made himself refocus on the books in front of him.

Stiles grinned. He slipped one hand under his waistband, wiggling his hips as he squeezed, patted, and rubbed his cheeks. He made a few tiny little happy noises.

Derek cleared his throat, but didn’t look over.

“Sure you don’t want to help me out, here? Healthy circulation is very important. You wouldn’t want me to get nerve damage on my ass, would you?” There was no response, and Stiles sighed. “Fine.” He stood in place, squeezing the muscles of his thighs and butt cheeks, alternating sides, bouncing a little as he reviewed the upper part of the shelves he’d been assigned.

Strong hands wrapped around his waist, pulling him abruptly back into Derek’s body. “You are a menace.”

“Me? Have you seen your ass? I’ve literally walked into parked cars staring at _dat ass_. And fallen. On my ass, which is neither muscular nor padded enough to really cushion the fall, I might add.”

There was a smile in Derek’s voice. “Your ass is perfect.” He manhandled Stiles around, backing him up to lean against the bookshelf. “You’re a walking disaster and the worst kind of menace and you’re smart and funny and gorgeous. And I like your ass.”

“Awww,” Stiles smiled, exaggerating how flustered he suddenly felt. His heart was already beating too fast to hide it, so he figured he might as well grab Derek’s head and kiss him. And of course, them being them, that was when a precariously stacked pile of books from the top shelf came crashing down around them.

“Ouch.” Stiles rubbed the top of his head. “Do you ever sometimes feel like the fates don’t so much want to keep us apart as want to actively hurt us when we’re together?”

Derek slowly turned from his crouched position on the floor where he was gathering the fallen books, and squinted up at Stiles. “No? What the hell?”

“Maybe it’s just me.”

“Maybe you’ve been hit on the head too many times,” Derek agreed.

“Concussions are not funny,” Stiles scowled. “Just look at all the brain damage football and rugby players suffer from. Man, I should be wearing a helmet every time we do werewolf business; this shit’s way more dangerous….”

He joined Derek on the floor, gathering the fallen books. And of course, they were still them, so….

“Hey. This one’s kind of purple, I think,” Stiles said, holding out an old, faded, slim paperback with a dragon on the cover.

“That’s it!” Derek snatched it out of his hands and stood up to start looking through it.

“Why yes, you’re most welcome, glad I could help, of course, no, I don’t mind cleaning up the rest of this mess at all, you go on ahead and re-live some happy childhood memories while I sneeze and ponder my chances of a concussion both right now, and my statistical odds of incurring permanent brain damage in less than five years of learning werewolves are real. I’m good.”

Derek looked up from the book. “I didn’t need to be part of that conversation, did I?”

Stiles stuck out his tongue.

*****

Many hours later, they were in Derek’s bed, sweat cooling as post-coital glow faded, Derek’s head on Stiles’ chest. He was running his fingers through Derek’s hair, as their breathing evened out and brains came back online.

“How’d you remember it was purple?”

“Mmm?”

“The book. All you remembered was the color of the cover.”

Derek was quiet, and then said in a vaguely embarrassed tone, “It was my favorite color.”

“Aw, that’s adorable,” Stiles said, trying not to laugh. “Wee baby Derek, all in purple clothes.”

Derek pinched Stiles’s nipple. “Jerk. So what was your favorite color, plaid?”

Stiles shrugged, jostling Derek’s head. “Never really had one. I think I generally said ‘glitter.’”

“Glitter? You said your favorite color was _‘glitter’_?” Derek’s body shook as he chuckled. “You’ve been a freak forever, haven’t you?”

“Yup. Proudly letting my freak flag fly since age four.”

Derek snorted. “The kids in junior high were fairly clear that purple was a _girl_ color, so that’s probably the last time I had any purple clothes.”

There was silence as Stiles began to plot birthday gifts.

“Do not even,” Derek said, trying to sound firm, but already well aware that the damage was done. Purple clothing was in his future.

“So, a leather suit, like Eddie Murphy? Or is the Joker’s zoot-suit more your style?”

Derek buried his face in Stiles’s belly. “I’m never telling you anything ever again,” came out muffled, the vibrations tickling and making Stiles laugh. 

 


	16. Quill

“It’s not _phallic_. It’s a _phallUS_. That is a dick,” Stiles said, stabbing his finger at the picture. “His nose is a dick. I do not want a dick-nose tattoo.” It was stated slowly and clearly, so there could be no miscommunication. He did not want it, thank you, but no.

“Too fucking bad.” Derek scowled.

“It really is the best solution,” Deaton said, with his usual infuriating calm. “We have a limited amount of the _letharia vulpina_ moss, and I’ve been unable to find another source. We have enough tincture for two, possibly three more injections, but they are effective for a shorter duration each time.”

Thorne nodded. “Basically, we need to get a solution to this pretty damn quick, and if the nogitsune managed to come back again, we’d be fucked.”

Lydia, standing next to her, also nodded her agreement. “Plus you’re obviously an attractive target to other malevolent spirits, not just this particular nogitsune. The tattoo would be a permanent barrier, preventing you from possession again, by anything.” She shrugged. “At least, we think so.”

“Come on,” Scott said, smiling as he jostled Stiles with his shoulder. “It’ll be hilarious.”

Stiles made a face and tried very hard not to say _But I don’t wanna_ out loud. He kicked the corner of the counter and refused to look at everyone else.

“Give us a minute?” he heard Derek ask.

Scott clasped Stiles’s shoulder and squeezed reassuringly before he left, and the sounds of everyone shuffling out of Deaton’s office followed. A moment later, Stiles felt Derek’s warmth as he leaned against the cabinet beside him.

“I know you don’t want this. And I know the real reason why,” Derek clarified. “Yeah, it’s ugly, and yeah, you hate acknowledging that this happened—twice—and that it could happen again. You hate admitting that you’re a target, a victim. And that it’s gotten worse as you’ve gained some magical skills.”

Stiles scowled and stared harder at the counter of veterinary supplies in front of him, saying nothing.

Derek sighed. “But what you hate the most is that you think if you were stronger, you could keep this from happening. You think the tattoo means you’re admitting failure, giving up, never being able to hold it off on your own. And that’s just bullshit, Stiles.”

“No one wants to be a victim. No one wants to admit that something bad happened and they couldn’t stop it. We both know that. We _all_ know that,” Derek added, meaning of pretty much every damaged person in their pack.

“I’m not an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. And I know you know there’s no actual debate here: you’re getting the tattoo. Yeah, you hate it. But that’s on you, because of what you’re making it mean.”

Stiles turned and shoved Derek. “Fuck you. I never got some stupid _hey-I’m-eighteen-now_ tattoo to be trendy or cool; I always thought they should mean something, even before I knew magic was real. _Your_ tattoo is a symbol of strength, a way of honoring your family, your heritage. And sure, the fire that set it was penance, from your fucked up and misplaced guilt. But this? This is just fucking bullshit.”

Derek’s crossed his arms, his effort to not get angry, not escalate the fight Stiles was trying to pick, was obvious. He took a few deep breaths, struggling over what to say. “Fine. You hate it. It’s an indelible mark of how weak you are, how vulnerable, and how it’s your fault all those people were killed by the nogitsune. And the fact that it has a dick for a nose is your punishment.”

Stiles’s anger had been simmering to the boiling point, and he was ready to lash out when the last few words Derek said made it to his brain. “Asshole,” he said, trying not smile.

“Dick-nose,” Derek taunted. “That’s your nickname now, by the way. Forever.”

“You are such a jerk.”

Derek snorted. “And you’re a stubborn idiot. You’re getting the tattoo; find a way to live with it. It’s a symbol of _protection_ , you’re the one making it into a punishment. If you can’t accept it for yourself, at least recognize that it’s protecting the people who would get hurt if the nogitsune possessed you again.”

Stiles scowled more. “I hate it when you’re right. Good thing it doesn’t happen very often.”

*****

There was quite a bit of debate about whether tattooing Stiles would be enough to exorcise the nogitsune, or whether it would simply lock the damn thing inside him permanently. Stiles demanded he have the deciding vote, since it was his body and he was tired of other people/things deciding what to do with it. The downside, though, was that they only had enough of the _letharia vulpina_ tincture to last maybe thirty-six hours at best to get the nogitsune out of him.

Derek’s book of Japanese folk tales suggested that exorcisms of evil _yako_ spirits should be done at an Inari shrine. Easy enough, except that the closest shrine was in Hawai’i. Stiles pushed for it because _Beach! Surfing! Derek wet in a bathing suit!_ Derek wasn’t against the idea, but Lydia rolled her eyes and pointed out that it was impractical with the time constraints, no matter who was footing the bill.

Kira’s mom was pressured until she deigned to assist them a tiny bit, and gave Kira the name of a Shinto priest she knew in the Bay Area. The priest – named George, hilariously enough – was perhaps inappropriately excited about the project, and immediately packed a bag and started the long drive out to Beacon Hills. He instructed them to start building a Torii gate and paint it cinnabar-red, and the pack had set to it under Derek’s direction. George brought two small kitsune statues, and consecrated the gate as a temple a few hours after he arrived.

The plan they came up with made Stiles pretty nervous, since he was unconscious for all of it. On one hand, they finally let him go to sleep, and he was ready to cry with gratitude over that, he was so fucking exhausted. On the other hand, wearing a straightjacket was not exactly going to replace his usual sleepy-time jammies.

Derek, Scott, Erika, Isaac, and Boyd held a protective circle around the group. Lydia, Thorne, and George were on the inside with Kira and Stiles. Kira’s kitsune skills had grown over the last few years, although she still didn’t have any tails or control of any oni. The tincture wore off of Stiles quickly once he was sleep, and the nogitsune woke up furious. The magic users made a black-hole-portal-thingie, which Stiles was bummed he didn’t get to help with. Then Kira stabbed Stiles in the chest with her katana, forcing the nogitsune out of his body, and the portal sucked it out of their world and off to another one for some other unfortunate people to have to deal with - sorry about that, alternate universe people.

When Stiles woke up, though, it was just him inside his body, so yay. Well worth the super-awesome (small) scar on his sternum, and the ton of pulled muscles in his shoulders from where the nogitsune had desperately struggled to get out of the straightjacket. Thank God Deaton had suggested they bespell it. All in all, it was a super fun and exciting Tuesday afternoon!

*****

On Friday, Stiles and Derek went to the tattoo parlor. It turned out Thorne had a friend who was a tattoo artist, and she didn’t so much as blink as Stiles explained what he wanted. Cringing, Stiles slid over the paper Deaton had given him earlier in the week. Scott had very helpfully doodled an alternative option, but no - Stiles had set that one on fire with a spark from his fingertips.

So he was a little bit more than surprised when Derek snatched away Stiles’s design, and put another one down on the counter.

“Dude. Did you draw this?” Stiles asked, mouth agape.

Derek shrugged. “I figured you’d rather have something less stupid looking. So I looked up a bunch of images of _tengu_ on the internet, and found a couple that looked more appropriate for protection.”

Stiles ran a fingertip over the outer lines. “I didn’t know you drew.”

“Sometimes.”

Stiles’s brow furrowed. “We will be discussing this later, mister.” He turned back to the tattoo lady. “This one, please. About… this big,” he said, making a circle about the size of the bottom of a Coke can.

She nodded, commenting “Way better,” and went to set up the ink and tools.

Stiles had decided to have it placed on his ribs, under his armpit, so it wouldn’t be visible to most people, or himself. He did like Derek’s version way better than Deaton’s, but he still didn’t want to see it every damn day, or having people staring at it on his back or something.

All in all, the worst part of getting the tattoo was having his left arm raised over his head for nearly two hours. Worst pins and needles ever, like seriously _epically_ awful. Also, knowing it wasn’t over, even once they’d paid the lady and left the shop.

*****

Stiles’s house was empty, his dad away working the swing shift. They settled in the living room, after a quick detour for water, bathroom, and the supplies for phase two.

“Okay,” Stiles said, setting down a bundle of cloth on the coffee table. “Let’s get this thing over with while I’m still full of endorphins.”

“Should I call Thorne? Or Deaton?” Derek asked. “Who did you decide would do this?”

Stiles stayed focused on clearing off the table, pressing his lips together like he was thinking. “Uh, I have all the stuff here. Can you do it?”

“I don’t really do magic,” Derek hesitated.

Stiles shrugged. There were a lot of really good reasons to ask Derek to do it— _you drew the sketch; I trust you more than anyone else; I’m tired of other people doing things to my body but I like when you touch me; you convinced me to do it in the first place; you know what it means more than anyone else does_ —but none of them seem better than the others and it was all too complicated to untangle. After a long moment, he simply said “Please?”

After Derek nodded, Stiles unrolled a dark blue cloth and started setting up the stuff that had been wrapped in it: two candles with designs etched into the wax, a small bottle of voodoo oil, a tiny soy sauce dish, a jar of chalky-white powder, and a feather quill that looked like something from _Harry Potter_.

Derek raised his eyes at the quill.

Stiles shrugged. “Magic likes old fashioned things, apparently.”

Derek snorted. “And you’re a huge geek.”

“Yup.”

Together they lit the candles, mixed the powder and oil in the bowl, and finally Stiles took off his shirt and lay down on his side, arm tucked behind his head again.

“Probably should have put more deodorant on today, huh?”

Derek ignored him, putting a steadying hand on his ribs, and asked, “Just trace around the outside, right?” and got to work outlining the design with the quill and not-ink magical goop.

The sharp point scraped over the already-stinging broken skin, and it burned like a motherfucker. Stiles sucked in a breath, trying to relax and hold still. It wasn’t helped by how slowly Derek was going, and it had only been a minute before he paused.

“Uh, is it supposed to… glow?”

Stiles’s whole body flinched. “What?”

Derek pointed with the quill, “The lines I’m tracing are… glowing. Emitting light. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“Huh.” Stiles twisted around, not really able to see what was going on in his armpit, but not willing to interrupt everything to go get a mirror. “Well, that’s probably good, right? Means it’s working and something is happening, right? Am I bleeding?”

Derek nodded. “A little, just a few beads, not dripping or anything. But it is getting mixed in with the inky-stuff, if that’s what you’re asking. I assume that’s the goal?”

“Yeah.” Neither of them was convinced by the false-confidence in Stiles’s voice, making it clear that neither Deaton nor Thorne had mentioned that part.

“Well. I guess the glowing will make it easier for me to see if I missed any spots,” Derek noted, and got back to work.

Stiles zoned out to the throb and sting, the tap of the quill’s nib in the not-ink dish, and the scratch-scratch-scratch as Derek went over the outline. He wasn’t painstakingly slow or anything, but he had to get more not-ink for the quill every half-inch or so, and it took the better part of an hour even though it wasn’t a big design.

After a while, long after Stiles had lost all sense of time, Derek sat back, quill in hand, and studied the tattoo. He touched up a few random spots where apparently it wasn’t perfect, and after about five or six of those, Stiles gasped. The slight glow turned into a bright enough light that he could see it coming from his side, and the scratch-and-burn minor pain suddenly was like an iron brand, and he yelled as a wave of agonizing pain crashed through him.

Derek’s strong hands pressed him down into the sofa cushions, steadying him until the pain receded and the tension started ease out of Stiles’s body. 

“I think that means it’s done,” he said.

Stiles huffed a bit of a laugh. “No shit.” He ran a hand over his face, wiping off sweat, and debated sitting up versus lying there for a bit longer.

“Stay,” Derek ordered, getting up. He came back with a damp cloth and wiped Stiles down. He confirmed that he couldn’t put any antiseptic on it, thought for a minute, and came back with an ice pack that he settled onto Stiles’s ribs.

The cold felt amazing on his skin. “I could kiss you.”

“You could,” Derek said, smiling as he leaned over to bring their lips together.

Stiles wound his hand over Derek’s shoulder and behind his neck, keeping him in place when he moved back to break the kiss. Derek smirked, and stayed where he was, shifting Stiles’s body around so they were more face to face. Chest to chest. Groin to groin, which was the good part. Stiles worked his hands down Derek’s back to grab his ass and start up a fairly filthy grind.

It was good, although it would have been better if Derek had, you know, _participated_ more, geez. “Why aren’t you moving?” Stiles complained.

“You smell weird,” Derek said, pulling back to look him in the eye, studying his face. “Also, your pupils are seriously blown, and you’re babbling like you’re drunk.”

Stiles grinned. “Yup. I’m so unbelievably high right now. We should totally keep making out.”

“Uh uh,” Derek, the huge party-pooper, said, and moved away, separating their bodies. “Remember that talk we had about consent?”

Stiles groaned, and tried to marshal his thoughts to argue that he wasn’t that kind of high, he totally consented, why did Derek have to be such a wet-blanket, okay he knew why, but _come on_ … And then he had a thought.

A delightful, wonderful, thought.

A horrible, wicked thought.

“Fine,” he said pretending to be totally rational and sober and adult—and missing by not one, but several miles. Derek looked afraid already.

“Turn into a wolf.”

“What? No. What?”

Stiles grinned. “Petting dogs when you’re fucked up is _awesome_ , like seriously, everyone on earth should do it at least once, your fur is _so fuzzy_ , it’ll be great. Come on. Let me pet you. Pleeeeease.”

Derek looked at him like he was crazy.

“Let me pet you. Or let me blow you. Your choice,” Stiles offered magnanimously.

Derek looked toward the heavens as if he was having a discussion with his creator regarding why he had been cursed with Stiles, in addition to all the suffering he’d already had to endure.

“Pleeeeasssssseeeeeeeeeeee…”

Defeated, Derek shook his head and stood up, shucking off his clothes impossibly quickly—too quickly for Stiles to even get more than a glance of inappropriate ogling—and shifted into his wolf form. He hopped up on the sofa as Stiles wiggled around, making room, and lay down between his legs, half on top of him.

Stiles lifted his hips, rubbing his still-mostly hard dick against him, and got growled at. “Fine, fine. We’ll walk down that road some other time,” he allowed, burying his fingers in Derek’s scruff.

Derek’s eyes flashed red, and he bared his teeth, but didn’t move away.

“Okay, whatever, we’ll never discuss my more pervy fantasies.”

Derek chuffed, and carefully set his head down, nose almost pressed to Stiles’s chin. He made a very contented-doggy sound, and let his eyes close to thin slits as Stiles carefully stroked his ears and face and throat, and everything he could reach.

“So fuzzy,” he whispered, like he was sharing a secret, and giggled until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a ridiculous number of hours looking up tengu tattoos. Disclaimer - I did not make any of these, I am a horrible artist, all credit goes to the talented creators!.
> 
> [This is the one Deaton drew](http://41.media.tumblr.com/5453a4481208d7508edcc39d063a935c/tumblr_nx3iym5U6W1rfqpi3o1_500.jpg)
> 
> [This is the one Scott so helpfully doodled.](http://thumb101.shutterstock.com/display_pic_with_logo/846931/366948557/stock-photo-tengu-doodle-366948557.jpg)
> 
> [And this is what Derek drew and what Stiles ended up with.](http://pre14.deviantart.net/75ea/th/pre/i/2013/112/a/8/oriental_flash_8__tengu__by_eltri-d62losj.jpg)


	17. Rebuilding

“Stiles?” Derek asked, sliding the door closed behind him as he came back to his loft after a late-night patrol.

“Yo.” A hand with a bottle saluted him from the floor by the sofa.

Derek blinked. “You're drunk.”

“Yup.”

“I thought you were seeing Deaton and Thorne tonight?”

“I did.” Stiles struggled into a sitting position as Derek came over and sat on the sofa.

“I'm guessing it went badly.”

“Yup,” was the succinct reply.

Derek rolled his eyes as he put a calming hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “Want to tell me about it?”

Stiles shrugged, then flung one arm wide. “I'm impotent!”

Derek blinked again.

“No more magic for me,” Stiles continued. “I'm back to being a totally useless, squishy human.”

Derek sighed. “Ah.”

Stiles waited for consoling platitudes. They didn't come, so he twisted around to glare at Derek. “ _Ah_? That's all you've got?”

“Well. You've always been squishy, with or without magic skills,” Derek pointed out.

“Fuck you very much.” Stiles hit Derek’s leg with the bottle, then clutched it to his chest as if to apologize—to the bottle.

“What happened?”

“The exorcism kind of burned out my spark, Deaton thinks.” Stiles sighed. “I’m scarred, like permanently—and I get you don't know what that means—but I haven’t even been able to drink legally for a year, and my body is permanently marked for the rest of my life.” He took a drink. “I’ve got scars on my arms, back, chest, legs, neck… and now this tattoo I didn’t want. I’ve only known about supernatural shit for like five years. I’m going to die before ten years, if things don’t calm down again.”

“You did get most of those in the first two years,” Derek pointed out. “Things have been less dangerous, in general.”

Stiles shrugged and drank again. He leaned back, resting his head on Derek’s thigh. “This feels like a turning point, you know? I can't do magic. I'm useless. Again. I have so much blood on my hands—no, shut up. My hands; their blood. Doesn't matter how it got there, it's still on me.” He was quiet for a long moment, taking another drink. 

Derek was waited for him to continue, then poked him when he didn’t. “Idiot. Magic was never the useful part about you. Yeah, it's been great that you had some better defenses. And you're smart, but Lydia's smarter. You're good at research, but Peter’s good too—when he can be persuaded that it's in his interest.”

“You suck at reassuring people.”

Derek’s hand tightened on Stiles’s shoulder and shook him a little. “Exactly. You're good at _people_. No, I know—you hate most people. But you _know_ them. You study someone, and figure out what motivates them, what they're afraid of, what can take them down or build them up. That's what you bring to this pack; the magic ability was just extra.”

“Stop, I’m blushing.” Stiles rubbed his cheek against Derek’s jeans. “Seriously? You think I’m good at that?”

Derek gave an exasperated sigh. “Seriously. You’re a master manipulator. I keep expecting you to turn into a super-villain.”

“Lex Luthor?” Stiles asked, perking up.

Derek snorted. “More like Doctor Doom.”

Stiles wiggled happily for a second, then slumped again, and sighed. “I’m just… at a crossroads, I guess. I hurt. I’m permanently marked. I don't have time for my own school stuff, never mind extra writing papers to sell for money, so I’m going to have to get some stupid minimum wage job. Honestly, I don't know even why I'm even going to school at all…. BHCC is a shitty community college. I was supposed to go to Stanford or Berkeley, like Lydia. But no, I wanted to be here with the pack, and I couldn't decide, and now it’s been two years.... Maybe it's time for me to decide.”

“What do you want to do?”

Stiles head-butted the leg he’d been leaning against. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be moping on your floor, dickface.”

“Dick _nose_ , I think you meant, and that’s _your_ nickname, not mine,” Derek corrected, trying not to smile.

“I’m having an existential crisis and you’re being an asshole.”

“Drama queen.”

Stiles made a scoffing noise. “I learned from the best.”

Derek cuffed him lightly on the ear. “You were like this before I met you.” Stiles huffed in response, making Derek smile. “How drunk are you?”

Stiles raised the bottle and indicated a level near the bottom. “This much. Wasn’t full when I started, though…. I’m tired.”

“There’s a bed up there,” Derek nodded. “I think you’ve been in it once or twice before.”

“Carry me.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeasssseeeee.”

“I’m seriously reconsidering dating you.” Derek grumbled, but he stood up, bent over, and grabbed Stiles. Stiles grunted loudly in mock-protest as Derek flung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “If you barf on me, I’m never having sex with you again.”

Stiles hummed in agreement, then began to pat and squeeze Derek’s ass.

“I will not hesitate to drop you,” Derek warned him.

“But it’s such a nice, round bottom,” Stiles said and giggled a little as he hummed a song Derek didn’t recognize.

Derek dropped him onto the bed more gently than he’d threatened to, but Stiles still made an exaggerated noise indicating pain of an unlikely magnitude. He made quick work of removing Stiles’s clothes, then brought over a trash can and bottle of water to put beside the bed, before he got in and wrapped his arms around Stiles.

“’M still upset,” Stiles mumbled.

Derek squeezed Stiles’s waist. “I know.”

It wasn’t very long until the sound of his breathing eased into sleep, with the comfort of Derek wrapped around him all night.

*****

“I was pretty pathetic last night,” Stiles said over breakfast, staring into his coffee cup.

Derek shrugged. “Yeah.”

Stiles kicked him. “Thanks, ass. I feel like shit, and somehow alcohol didn’t _actually_ resolve my angst or help me come up with a life plan.”

“I’ve heard those aren’t among its powers,” Derek said, shaking his head in a regretful way.

“So….” Stiles dithered for a moment about whether to continue down that path of emo-ness or not. _Not_ , definitely, he decided.

“So?”

“What are you up to today?”

Now it was Derek’s turn to avoid eye contact by focusing on his coffee. “Uh. I’m going to Home Depot and then the nursery.”

“Nursery? Like for babies?”

Derek kicked him under the table. “Like for plants, idiot.”

“Shut up, like either of those is something you’ve ever expressed an interest in before,” Stiles groused. There was a long pause. “What are the plants for?”

Derek sighed, and raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “For the garden.”

Stiles gave him an expectant look. “Well?” he asked. “Am I going to have to drag every word out of you one by one?”

“Maybe,” Derek said, making a face. “Fine. So, the county condemned the house in the Preserve and bulldozed it a few years ago, right?”

“Yes, I vaguely remember that,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Something about an age-regression spell, and teenage you flirting with Scott, and all of us being traumatized by that experience. And some other stuff.”

Derek manfully ignored him. “Right. So they tore it all down and cleared away the wood and stuff, and I filled in the basement and tunnels. But the property was still in our name, so Cora and I have been talking, and we decided to plant a garden there.”

“Ah. I’d wondered if you were going to rebuild the house. So you’re going to get some plants.’

“Yeah. And dirt and wood and stuff. I’ve assembled most of the beds already, and was planning on making the last few today, and getting the plants I ordered into the ground before it gets cold.”

Stiles chewed on his lip. “Huh. Okay.” 

“What?”

“Just…. Not something I’d have imagined: Derek Hale—gardener.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I’m planting a fairly simple flower garden, not becoming a professional horticulturalist.”

Stiles fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to swoon. “Ooh, look at you with the big, sexy vocabulary.”

Derek smacked him with the cereal box. “Shut up and get dressed. You just volunteered to help.”

*****

“I didn’t know dirt was so heavy,” Stiles whined, dropping his bag onto the heap.

Derek grinned. “Only five more to unload. I’ll start sorting out the plants while you do the grunt work.”

“Unfair. You and the other werewolves are the grunt-work team. I’m the brains of the operation.”

“Feel free to use your brains to carry all that potting mix over here and fill up the beds.”

Stiles flipped him off. They’d assembled the last two plots, and set them into a circle near the middle of where the house had stood. Derek had a piece of paper he was consulting, with diagrams and his impossibly tiny scrawl outlining where he planned to put things. As Stiles unloaded the last of the soil and dumped it in, Derek started unpacking and arranging various pots of flowers, blubs, and envelopes of seeds.

The smell of the rich loam was soothing, and it felt good to sweat for a reason that wasn’t running for his life or working out to stay in shape so he’d be able to run for his life later on. Except that sex was a better reason to sweat, and Stiles looked around to see Derek on his knees beside one of the beds.

He looked good down there.

“Stop perving and get back to work,” Derek said, not looking up from his plants.

“Stop using your invasive werewolf powers to smell when I’m horny,” Stiles griped. “It’s no fun if you’re not going to do anything about it.”

“Later, maybe.”

“What, really?” Stiles blinked. “You’d be up for some sex _al fresco_? Really?”

Derek snorted. “Do you seriously think I’ve never had sex outside?”

“Unfair,” Stiles pouted. “I don’t get to be your first anything.”

“Whatever. Are you done over there yet?” Derek asked, changing the subject not at all subtly.

“We’re coming back to this natural lovin’ topic, mister, don’t think I’m going to forget. And yes, I’m done. Is there any water?”

Derek pointed across the clearing. “There’s a hose on that pipe over there. I’m planning to set up some drip irrigation in the spring.”

“Look at you, all knowledgeable about tiny things and their need for water. Sex-aay,” Stiles grinned, as he went over to get a drink from a manky-looking hose. He cleaned up a bit, and went back to the car to grab the sandwiches they’d picked up at the deli on their way out.

“So, tell me about the flowers, O Master Gardener,” he said as he sat on a tree stump and started to eat.

Derek made a face at him, but obliged, pointing out each one. “Dew-flowers for Mom. Snapdragons for Dad. Geraniums for Laura. Cinquefoil my brother Michael. Primrose for Sarah, Peter’s wife. Daisies for their twins, Marissa and Melina. Day lilies for Grandma and yerba santa for Grandad. Lupine. Oh, and an azalea bush.”

Stiles came over as Derek talked, to see which plants he was pointing at as he spoke. He’d arranged them so there were a few of each kind in every bed, with lupine seeds surrounding and filling in the spaces between them all.

Stiles put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I think it’s going to look really nice. Colorful and happy. Like how I think of your family.” Derek nodded. “Are you going to put their names anywhere?”

“Haven’t decided yet. Cora wants to. The azalea bush goes in the middle of the circle.”

Stiles nodded. “Not like you can’t add a plaque or markers later.”

Derek nodded, and they stood in contemplative silence. After a moment, they got back to work, and before much longer, most of the plants were in their designated spaces in the beds.

“Come help me with the azalea,” Derek ordered, brushing his hands off on his pants.

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles prompted.

“Please, Stiles, sweetheart, darling—assist me in moving this bush before I throw it at you.”

“So violent,” Stiles scolded as he stood up, brushing his hands off on his completely-filthy jeans. “Good to see some things never change.”

Derek rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. They had a brief argument-slash-discussion about how deep to dig the hole, which Stiles won because he’d once read an article about rhododendrons and other about toxic flowers on Wikipedia or something.

“Did you know bouquets of them were once given as death threats?”

“No, and my life will never be the same now.”

“Ass.”

After their usual amount of tussling, harassing, and teasing, the bush was in the hole and the dirt put back in around it.

“Sit,” Derek said.

“Arf,” Stile replied raising an eyebrow.

“Sit down, jerkface. Please,” Derek added after a beat. “This is important.”

Stiles snorted, but sat down beside the bush. Derek sat across from him, then reached forward and took his hands, making a ring around the plant, then guided their connected hands down to the ground.

“My grandmother had a bunch of flowerbeds surrounding the house, before. Sometimes when I was little, I’d help her, and she’d tell me stories. Sometimes she had me go pull weeds as punishment. I wasn’t very good at telling the difference between which ones were weeds and which were flowers,” Derek said in a soft and fond voice. “Anyway, she always said it was important to think good thoughts when you planted something, to let the plant or seeds know you wanted them to grow and thrive. So, uh, do that. Think good thoughts.”

Stiles tried not to “aww” out loud, but he still had a sappy look on his face. “Like Peter Pan,” he said, smiling as he lightly squeezed Derek’s fingers. “Okay.” He took a long, slow breath, hearing Derek do the same on the other side of the bush. He closed his eyes, let himself relax and feel the heat of the sun on his neck, the movement of air on his skin, the coolness of the dirt. He thought about it blooming, about it bringing Derek and Cora good memories about their family.

The azalea quivered.

Stile’s eyes opened. “Um. Did you do that?”

Derek sounded amused. “Nope. Pretty sure that was you, Sparky.”

Stiles gave the plant a thoughtful look. “Huh. Maybe I can get it up after all.”

Derek laughed, squeezing Stiles’s fingers before he got up. “Just let me know if plants start turning you on. Things could get weird, running for our lives in the forest.”


	18. Swearing

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Scott said, making a face at Stiles. Derek, next to him with arms crossed and expression angry, nodded.

“Well _duh_ ,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “This is in no way a good idea, near a good idea, or distantly related as a cousin twice removed to a good idea. This is, in fact, a super shitty idea, so good-going with the analytical skills, O Wise Alphas.”

Melissa and Thorne laughed, and Deaton gave them an impatient look. “Let’s try to focus on the bigger issue here, please—” he started, only to be interrupted by the Sheriff.

“Yeah, I think some fairy—or fae or whatever those spindly, pale, alien things are called—wanting to take my son to some inaccessible ‘other realm’ for a year, is kind of a big deal.”

Deaton nodded. “It is. But the payment plan, if you will, is a secondary concern. This council was called to discuss the planting of a new nemeton, as the decision will affect the Beacon Hills community as a whole, for several generations.”

“Well, we’re obviously going to do it,” Lydia said from the iPad she was Skyping in from. “It makes sense, and I’m surprised none of us thought to do it earlier. A vacuum must be filled.”

Stiles pointed at the iPad, nodding, then made a face and glared at Deaton. “You’d think the druids would have known that,” he accused, and Derek nodded in agreement. Like, wasn’t all of that “balance” shit in their fucking job description?

Deaton glared back, but before he could offer a rebuttal, Thorne interrupted him. “Alan is right: focus up, people. Sarcasm and blame won’t help. We have a problem; what are we going to do about it?”

So apparently, when the old nemeton got weak and started to die—as trees do—someone (the emissary at the time) was supposed to—shockingly— _plant a new one_. You know, so there’d be _another_ guardian tree to do the nemeton-stuff. Not just cut it down, and leave a big old dying stump, still acting as a beacon, but for death and decay and evilness.

Alas, no. Deaton wouldn’t say who was the emissary at the time, but it was pretty obvious that the nemeton had started dying in the 1950s, for some reason, and the fortunes of the Hale pack had changed dramatically for the worse from about that time onward. When the dying tree was finally cut down after a big storm knocked most of its branches down when Derek was a kid, a void was created. And then a whole shit-ton of fucked-up stuff happened, as bad mojo was attracted to Beacon Hills to fill the vacuum of power.

When the Hale-McCall pack had finally dug out the stump and roots and burned the remains of the nemeton a couple of years ago, there had been a bit of a lull, but then the vacuum grew. Which was why they’d had so many monsters-of-the-week for the last year. The beacon was still “on” but there was nothing guarding the gate, so to speak, and it was frankly surprising that all hell hadn’t broken loose yet.

The faeries from early summer’s adventure had apparently started having some bleed-through to _their_ realm and were not happy about it, to say the least. The queen had sent a whole entourage with the prince this time, and they had been a bit less diplomatic. On the plus side, they had both explained the problem and offered to help, which was awesome because the Hale-McCall pack was—as usual—totally fucking clueless.

“Fine, yes. Let’s focus on the tree part, and not on the faeries-steal-my-son part,” the Sheriff grumbled from his seat on the sofa.

Melissa patted his knee. “I always thought he might be a changeling.”

“Not funny,” Stiles said. “Those things have fuh-- _messed_ up teeth and shit. Be nice, or we won’t let parents be part of the council anymore.”

John scoffed. “You need us, pipsqueak. The alpha, their emissary, the pack’s scholar, the head of the warriors, and the head of the healers. Times two, since there are two alphas. You’re lucky Chris and Dr. Wentz aren’t here.”

Thorne cleared her throat. “Option one: accept the sapling the faeries have offered to give us. Option two: send someone to…” She trailed off and gave Derek a questioning look, but got a head-shake-shrug in reply. “…somewhere in England or possibly Wales, to find the Hale Pack’s original oak grove and bring back a sapling.”

“Or option three,” Lydia interrupted, “Find a more local sacred oak grove, preferably in California, and take a sapling from there.”

“And ‘sacred oak grove California’ yielded zero hits on Google,” Stiles joked.

“Actually….” Thorne glanced across the room at Deaton, who nodded. “We may have a lead in the Bay Area, but we’ll have to check it out first. The problem with that option is whether it will work.”

“What makes an oak tree sacred?” Derek asked. “How it is different from any other tree? There are plenty of them around here. Why can’t we just pick one?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Energy. History. Magic. You can’t just pick a tree and decide ‘okay, this is going to be our big magical guardian tree now’ and have it work.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is real life, not a game of let’s-pretend,” Lydia interrupted, cutting of the impending argument. “We need a game plan. How long until we have to give the faeries an answer?”

“Three days from their offer,” Deaton replied. “Seventy-two hours exactly from when they left, or they come in and do what they want. And don’t even think about it,” he said, glancing at Derek and Scott, “Physical force isn’t going to work; there’s no way to overpower them. Fae magic is… not something this world’s magic can do anything about.”

“How do you think we got will-o’-the-wisps?” Thorne said with a rueful smile.

John cleared his throat. “Okay, so we have, what, fifty hours or so to come up with a plan, right?” He looked at Derek and Scott meaningfully, and they nodded but said nothing. “Boys, someday one or both of you are going to have to learn how to be a leader.”

“Seriously,” Stiles snorted. “Fine, so. We need someone to investigate each of our options in more detail.”

Lydia and Thorne shared a significant look. “We will.”

“Someone needs to figure out the parameters of this ‘exchange’ with the faeries,” John said, crossing his arms.

Deaton nodded. “I will consult with the diplomatic envoy. Why don’t you join me,” he suggested, looking at John and Melissa. “I know Stiles’s safety is your main concern at the moment.”

Derek growled a little, and Scott nodded. “Uh, we’re concerned about that too.”

“Nope,” Stiles said, throwing an arm around each of them. “We’re going to be working on your leadership skills, because your big test is in… sixty-eight hours and seven minutes. Time to put on your big-boy pants, Alphas.”

***

Stiles and Derek snarked and snapped at each other for the next day and a half, as Stiles tried to give him and Scott a crash-course in negotiation and assertiveness that wasn’t claws-and-fangs based. It was not going well.

“Oh my God, how can you two be so stupid?” Stiles asked, running his hands through his hair and pulling at it as he scowled at the two Alphas. “It’s a sample problem. I know you think D&D is stupid, but just fucking focus, all right? Look at the problem, come up with a plan to resolve it, decide who will do what, and readjust changes when your plan doesn’t work out perfectly. You don’t get to ‘roll again’ in life, asshats.”

“Maybe if you’d stop being such a condescending prick, we’d be more likely to learn,” Derek growled.

“Seriously, man. _You_ need to work on motivation and constructive criticism,” Scott said, looking at the Leadership Skills infographic Stiles had printed out and pinned to the wall.

“I’m not the goddamned alpha! Leadership is _your_ job, not mine,” Stiles fumed.

“Because you’re such an expert emissary,” Derek threw back.

Scott glanced between the two of them, both standing with arms crossed, glaring at the other one like they wanted to set them on fire. He cringed inwardly, tried to think of a better metaphor, but gave up. “Maybe if we went back to the role-playing stuff you had us doing earlier, where we pretend we’re negotiating with the faeries. That seems a lot more helpful than this RPG-stuff.”

Stiles glared. “Fine. Feel free to come up with your own scenario to practice, though, because I’m fucking _done_ coming up with new shit and hoping something will finally get through your incredibly thick skulls.”

Derek clenched his jaw, trying not to lose his temper. “You can be such a dick, Stiles. We may not be as smart as you are about some things, but you’re pretty damn stupid about how to treat people. Just because you’re pack doesn’t mean you can say whatever you want without consequences.”

“Are you threatening me?” Stiles demanded, getting up in Derek’s face.

Derek growled louder as his eyes flashed red.

“Okay, I think it’s time for a break,” Scott said, getting between the two of them. “Everyone’s angry and nothing productive is happening. Let’s go for a run, okay? Burn out some of this tension.”

“Right, because it’s going to be so soothing to have the two of you outpace me in like three seconds,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes.

“We’ll run around the track, and I’ll stay beside you,” Scott offered.

Derek glared. “You can baby him if you want. I’m going for a real run.” He sneered at Stiles as he stripped, shifted into his full-wolf form, and bounded out of the loft.

“Jerk,” Stiles muttered.

“Yeah you are,” Scott said, knocking him with his shoulder. “Come on. I promise I won’t mention how slow you are even once.”

Stiles shoved him back. “Thanks.”

***

Their break, followed by lunch, helped a little, although none of them were thrilled with each other. Stiles had no faith in Derek and Scott’s ability to negotiate, and was getting more and more wound up about being taken hostage. By the end of the day, though, Derek and Scott had worked through a few different scenarios of what could happen, and Stiles was grudgingly willing to admit the alphas had improved, and everything might not go entirely to shit if they both managed to stay calm during the negotiations. If they got overwhelmed or angry, well. Stiles was going to end up the chew-toy of that smarmy-looking faery prince for a year.

When the pack reconvened that evening, Lydia was there in person, and both she and Thorne looked very pleased with themselves. They’d worked their magical connections, and had managed to find a neo-pagan group in Northern California that had an official sacred grove of oak trees. It had even been blessed by a Miwok shaman, as well as by their high druid. It was the ideal solution—if the magic was real enough.

Deaton’s group had been less successful. The faery delegation had been almost entirely unwilling to say anything regarding the exchange contract, other than to repeat that Stiles wouldn’t be “permanently harmed.” If they thought that was reassuring, they were gravely mistaken; there was an awful lot that could be done to Stiles that wouldn’t leave physical scars.

“So, thanks to our witches, we have a plan,” Stiles said, crossing his arms. “Which should give us a nemeton, not put us in the faeries’ debt, and save my ass. The only hinky part is whether our brave and strong alphas have actually learned to negotiate.”

“Maybe you could lay off a little?” Scott said with a huff. “I know you’re scared, but we’ve been trying. You being an asshole hasn’t exactly helped.”

Deaton gave Stiles a significant look, and Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” As apologies went, it failed miserably. Maybe he’d have more faith in Scott and Derek if the two of them had ever—even once—come up with a decent plan for anything. It wasn’t his fault they sucked.

“Later,” Deaton said, interrupting the glaring contest Stiles and Scott were having. “Let’s go over how this is going to go down. We only have a few hours.”

***

The meeting took place in a woodsy grove at sundown. The faeries had insisted that only the two alphas be allowed to parley, with three of the faery delegation—including the prince. The rest of the pack had to wait at the outer perimeter. Some weird magic was blocking them from being able to hear what was going on, but they could at least watch as the negotiations progressed.

It did not seem to be going well. Derek’s arms were firmly crossed over his chest with his hands balled in tight fists, and Scott was frowning and looking like whatever the faeries were saying had thrown him.

Stiles wanted to scream. Their oh-so-charming blend of naivety and bravery and excess emotion was going to get him enslaved to some weirdo with crazy eyes and creepy, too-long fingers. Stiles felt like he was covered in slime every time the prince looked at him, and there was either some sick and twisted sexual stuff going on, or the guy wanted to literally eat him—either way, no. Just no, he’d run away, or trade his soul, or whatever else occurred to him when they tried to take him. Unfortunately Stiles had read everything he could about faeries over the last two days—there was nothing he could do to escape. It was like trying to bargain with a shark that already has its mouth around your torso.

A firm hand came down on his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts and making him aware that he was shaking with frustration and anger. “Breathe, son.”

Stiles huffed, but many years of habit had him taking long, slow breaths in and out to hold off the panic attack, as his dad encouragingly breathed beside him. “Four years, dad. They’ve had four years to get better at this alpha-thing, and they still suck, and now it’s my ass on line.”

“It’s always your ass on the line.” John snorted. “You’re the one chancing fatal injury every time your pack gets into a fight.”

“No kidding.” Stiles sighed. “Can anyone read lips?” he asked loud enough for the others to hear. No one responded. “Fucking great.”

They stood outside the circle, watching as Derek grew more and more agitated, glaring and stomping around with claws and fangs out. Scott tried to stay between him and the prince, whose cocky expression seemed to be enough to provoke Derek all by itself. Finally, the other two ambassadors said something that calmed everyone down a little, although Derek and the prince continued to scowl at each other with unconcealed loathing.

One of the faeries took a scroll from a pocket in her robes, and unrolled the parchment against a tree. Derek read whatever was written on it, glared angrily at the lady, and stepped aside. Scott read it, sighed, and pricked his fingertip with a claw and signed his name. Derek bared his teeth—fangs included—at everyone, but grudgingly did the same. It seemed the negotiations were finished.

Stiles thought his heart might not-literally pound out of his chest. He was starting to get sweaty and nauseated from adrenaline and suspense. Only his dad standing beside him was keeping him from hyperventilating.

Finally, the sound-barrier dropped, although the only sound that was immediately audible was Derek’s continuous low snarls. The alphas nodded at the faeries, who nodded back.

The prince glanced across the grove. “Until next time,” he said, smirking at Stiles, and the three faeries popped out of the grove without a sound.

“Well?” Stiles demanded, springing to intercept Derek and Scott on their way back. “Jesus H. Christ, I’m fucking dying here, what the fucking fuck was that? What did you sign? What ‘next time’?”

“If you’d shut up for a second, maybe one of us could tell you,” Derek bit out.

Stiles was less than half a second from leaping at Derek and punching him in the face; only his dad’s restraining hand was keeping him from shaking out of his skin.

Thankfully Deaton and Thorne took over before things got out of control. “Do they think the sapling we were given will work?” Thorne asked.

“Yeah, but they say they have to bless it or something,” Scott answered.

“Sanctify,” Derek said through clenched teeth.

“Right, that. They were _not_ happy about it, especially the prince, but the advisor-lady said it would probably work.”

Stiles frowned. “And? What aren’t you telling me?”

“They still want something in exchange,” Derek scowled. “Not you for a year, but they want you personally to swear your allegiance to them.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“They wouldn’t say.”

Stiles threw his hands in the air, so full of questions and fury that no actual words could make their way out for a moment.

“And you signed something agreeing to this, in blood?” Lydia asked with a disapproving frown.

“We didn’t have a choice!” Derek roared. “Why do you all think we had any kind of choice here, or why whatever we said would matter at all? They’re stronger than us, they can do whatever they want, and we can’t stop them.”

“But what about the treaty from earlier this year?” John asked.

“Who’s going to enforce it?” Derek scoffed. “You and your deputies? We have no leverage. The fact that they didn’t just grab Stiles and go is just….”

Scott waited for Derek to finish his sentence, then shrugged. “He’s right though. You guys said we can’t do anything about their magic, and we need them to sanctify the nemeton sapling. They can pretty much take whatever they want.”

“And how long, exactly, did it take for you two to sell me out for the ‘greater good’?” Stiles accused. “Did you even try to negotiate? Or did you just stand there and growl at them like animals?”

Derek lunged toward Stiles, fury almost palpable. Scott got in the way and shoved Derek back—halfway across the clearing.

“Fuck you, Stiles,” Derek said as he got up. “Maybe we should have just let them have you,” he snarled, as he ran off into the woods.


	19. Try Me

Stiles was given one day to prepare for his meeting with the queen. Derek and Scott had zero information about what “swearing allegiance” meant, where it would happen, if the queen was coming here herself, or what. 

Stiles was, to put it bluntly, not happy.

Stiles was, to put it a bit more pointedly, screamingly furious, hurt, outraged, betrayed, terrified, and barely holding his shit together.

The next afternoon he, his dad, Scott, Derek, and Deaton set out to the grove again. Stiles was drenched in sweat, trying not to hyperventilate, and kept fidgeting with his tie and tightly buttoned shirt-cuffs. Lydia and Melissa had insisted that if he was interacting with royalty and representing their pack, he’d damn well better look appropriately presentable.

At exactly noon, the trio of faeries popped into the grove. It took less than a second to realize that the queen was not among them. Stiles was evidently expected to go to her—to a realm that wasn’t even part of this world, where no one could help him, where he was utterly powerless—and his only reassurance was the word of the two ambassadors. The prince was disconcertingly silent, promising nothing.

“Are you sure you want me?” Stiles pleaded, trying to breathe in a less-obviously-freaking-out kind of way. “I mean, I can’t even do magic anymore. You guys know that, right? We sort of had to burn it out after the nogitsune. I’m only still the emissary because I like to research stuff; I don’t have any actual value.”

The prince gave him such a creepy grin that Stiles shivered. “An alpha without claws is still a werewolf, is he not?” Because that wasn’t at all threatening.

One of the ambassadors cleared her throat. “The queen has chosen you to represent the Hale-McCall pack, for her own reasons. Will you attend her?”

Every cell in Stiles’s body screamed _No, hell no, fuck you, no way on earth_. But then, they weren’t going to be on earth, were they? And as Derek had so helpfully pointed out, _no_ wasn’t an option.

“Can you give us some promise that you’ll return him?” John asked. “Will he be safe? Can one of us go with him?”

“Would you be reassured by our promises?” the second ambassador asked, in a tone much closer to condescending than sincere.

“No. He’s not going,” Derek snarled, stepping in front of Stiles.

Stiles shoved him, to no avail.

“You have no claim on him, mongrel,” the prince retorted, smiling in way that emphasized his teeth.

Stiles’s anger redirected to the more-familiar target. “You don’t own me, jackass,” he said, stepping out from behind Derek.

“I’m trying to protect you!”

“I can take care of myself,” Stiles said, but was interrupted before he could continue.

“Perhaps you can resolve your internal problems at a later time,” the first ambassador suggested. “The queen is waiting.”

Derek glared at Stiles. Stiles glared at Derek. Scott and John looked at each other, worried. Deaton looked somewhere between his usual placid calm and deeply disappointed with everyone in the universe.

Stiles was abruptly very tired of all of the whole thing. He was going to see the faery queen, he couldn’t get out of it, no one could protect him, and he was sick of struggling against the inevitable.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” he said, nodding at the least-terrifying ambassador.

She gave him what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile, took his hand, and then there was a swirling sensation and shiver of something cold, like walking through a waterfall made of ice or some other trite metaphor. What seemed like mere heartbeats later, the sensation came again, but ended with him stumbling and then falling, and he was back in the wooded grove with his father and the pack. Had he even gone anywhere? And why did his head hurt like it was going to split in half? And where did this scroll of papers he was clutching in his right hand come from?

“What the ever-loving fuck?”

“Did something go wrong?” Deaton asked, in a voice that seemed to echo from a distance.

“I don’t know…” Stiles said, his words fading as his legs crumpled under him. Everything went grey, and then completely black, as strong arms kept him from hitting the ground.

***

So it turned out that the faeries had some seriously fucked up security protocols, the main one of which was that they basically roofied any visitors so they had no memory of what happened in the faery realm. Assholes.

On the plus side, they’d helpfully given him a copy of the contract he’d (apparently) signed, and a scrupulous self-examination back home in his bathroom indicated that he hadn’t been physically assaulted—probably; it wasn’t like they knew the extent of faery magic. He still felt violated and traumatized. Yay that it wasn’t the same as being possessed by a psychotic demon, but he was pretty goddamned sick of people messing with his brain. His brain was his best, most reliable part, and it wasn’t fair that people-who-weren’t-human kept using it against him.

The contract—written in some swirly 18th century script that was damn near impossible to read—basically said the Hale-McCall pack would help out the faeries “in time of need” and would pay for failure to assist with their lives. Which was shitty, but about what Stiles had expected. On the plus side, Stiles’s name wasn’t mentioned anywhere except for his signature at the bottom as the Pack Emissary.

“See? As always, I was right and you were wrong,” he said triumphantly, making a face at Derek and Scott.

“They said _you_ , personally, by name,” Derek argued, crossing his arms over his chest. “They could have asked for Deaton, or for you both, if they’d just wanted the emissary. They could have, I don’t know, _used that title_. They could have not _started_ by demanding the delight of your company for a year!”

Stiles’s dad made a noise of agreement.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “They wanted you, dude.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Only on behalf of the pack, if you idiots had actually listened to them.”

Derek looked three seconds away from murder, and was growling deep in his throat. Muscles clenching in both his jaw and arms as he glared at Stiles. “Fine. You were right; we were wrong. We’re incompetent; your brilliance has saved us all once again. I’m so fucking done with this.”

He left the house, not with a slammed front door but with one carefully shut. Somehow, it was that small demonstration of self-control that penetrated Stiles’s sanctimonious anger.

Stiles turned to look at Scott, who shook his head. “You can be such a jerk sometimes,” Scott agreed, and left too.

His dad and Deaton were still sitting at the table, the contract unrolled in front of them. Stiles glanced at them, as John snorted. “Good job, kiddo. Out of the frying pan and right into another fire.”

Deaton’s mouth was a firm, humorless line as he pointedly said nothing about the exchange, and left with a simple good-bye.

John got up and put a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, squeezing. “Son, one of these days, you’re going to realize just how much of a weapon your words can be. Maybe then you’ll reconsider shooting them at the people you love.”

Stiles scowled. “I’m not going to apologize. Everything I said was true. I was right, they were wrong, they’re idiots.”

“The three of us—the whole pack, really—has been worried sick for the last four days. About you, _personally_ , Stiles. And you may have been right about some parts, but Scott and Derek are right too; you’ve been acting like a real jerk. You can’t lash out and hurt people when you’re upset, and always expect them to forgive you. You’re an adult; take some responsibility for the mess you made and fix this.”

“But I was right,” Stiles insisted.

John shook his head as he left the kitchen. “Well then, I hope you and your self-righteousness are happy together.”

Stiles scowled after him, arms crossed, as the first tendrils of self-doubt began to creep in.

***

It was four days before Stiles texted Scott. Two days for Stiles to calm down, feel like he was safe from being abducted by creepy supernatural beings, and maybe consider that he’d been a bit harsher than he should have been to his BFF and “boyfriend or whatever.” Which was counteracted by calls, texts, and emails from the rest of the pack members who hadn’t been to the meeting, and being told that they were various flavors of Glad He Was Safe and also Very Disappointed In Him/You’re a Total Dick Sometimes. So then there were another couple of days of Stiles being pissed off again because goddamn it, he had been fucking _right_.

Mostly.

So finally he texted Scott. _Sorry I was a dick because I was scared._

Scott answered right away. _Thx. Sry we didn’t listen to the fairys better._

_They weren’t exactly super clear about their intentions_ , Stiles allowed. _They get off on causing strife._

_They were good at that. I get you were scared. You’re always gonna be the brains around here, but you gotta trust us to protect you. That’s OUR job._

_I know, dude. I’m sorry._

_Okay._

_[…]  
Usual apology food at Betty’s Burgers?_

_Yeah. Better hit an ATM – I’m starving and you owe me._

So that was sorted out, with the usual amount of fuss from Scott. But Scott had over fifteen years of practice forgiving Stiles for being an asshole—and Stiles forgiving him for being an idiot. They’d gone through some shitty times together, but always made up eventually. Like brothers.

Derek, however, was another story entirely, and Stiles had no idea how to approach him. Derek hadn’t said a thing in almost a week, so it was clearly Stiles’s move. Texting seemed like a serious cop-out. Calling seemed even more stupid. Going over to Derek’s house… well, there was an all-too-real possibility that Stiles had fucked up everything between them and would be met at the door with a box of the random T-shirts, books, and miscellaneous stuff he’d left at Derek’s over the years, and a demand for him to give Derek’s key back.

So it was another few days before Stiles got annoyed with himself and his dithering. He almost turned around twice between the parking lot and the door to Derek’s loft, but he knew that if Derek was home, he’d heard the Jeep coming a mile away. So he took a deep breath, tried to remember what his dad had said about focusing on what was important, and knocked.

Derek made him wait a few minutes before he slid open the door. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t invite Stiles in, just leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed and brow raised. 

Frankly, Stiles had had interactions with Derek start off worse. “You were right, I was being an asshole, and I’m sorry,” he said all in a rush.

Derek snorted. “And?”

“And… And I miss you?”

“Are you sure about that?” Derek asked in a skeptical tone.

“I don’t know what you want me to say!”

Derek sighed and turned to walk into the loft, shaking his head. He sat down on the sofa, and looked expectantly at Stiles until he came in and shut the door behind him.

“How do you want this to work out?” he asked bluntly.

Stiles ran his fingers through his hair and started to pace in agitation. “I don’t know!” He didn’t have to look at Derek to feel the eye-roll, so he huffed a breath and tried again. “I want things to be better, to go back to how they were before I ran my mouth off. I was freaked out, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. And Scott,” he added.

“But you still think you were right,” Derek pressed.

Stiles opened his mouth, and then closed it with an obvious effort, scowling. “I think I was angry and scared. And I _was_ right that the threat was less than you two thought, _BUT_ ,” he said quickly, before Derek could interrupt him, “But I get that you—none of us—had enough information to know that at the time. That prince dude was fucking creepy, and that first ‘offer’ to help was definitely not okay.”

“And you needed to be in control,” Derek added, getting up to pace around a bit himself.

Stiles shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. You’re not the only one with issues, dude.”

Derek snorted, but it sounded a little more like genuine amusement and a bit less derisive than before. “No fucking kidding.”

There was an uncomfortably long silence, and Stiles finally swallowed and braced himself. “What do you want to happen now?”

It was not reassuring how long it took for Derek to answer.

“I want you to realize…” he said slowly, “that if you don’t respect me, this can’t work out.”

“What?” Stiles blanched.

“You’re disrespectful. You’re insulting. Some of it’s just casual ribbing, but I think you mean it, too. You _are_ the smartest guy in the room. But if you can’t treat me as an equal, then I don’t think we can do this.”

“Is this an Alpha thing?” Stiles asked, getting angry all over again. “Are you pissed that I ‘disrespected’ you in front of others?”

Derek glared at him. “Yeah. It is, and I am. But it’s also a human thing. You wouldn’t talk to your dad like that, or Lydia, or even Thorne. You respect their intelligence, even if you think you’re smarter than they are. You know they bring things to the table that you lack, other knowledge, perspectives, experience.” He paused a moment, letting that sink in, then continued before Stiles could come up with a rebuttal.

“Look at it this way—I’m way hotter than you. That’s just a fact, like you being smarter than me. But if I was constantly telling you how great I look, and how you’re so much less sexy, you wouldn’t just be hurt and pissed off; you’d wonder why the fuck I was even with you, if I didn’t think you were attractive. Right?”

Stiles felt like he’d been slapped across the face, and could only blink at Derek. Derek wasn’t pulling any punches, and it was a shock how much it hurt to have him hit right on Stiles’s deepest insecurities about their relationship.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to _think_ , and all of the feelings were bottlenecked in his throat.

Derek sighed and turned toward the kitchen area. He started making a pot of coffee, even though Stiles knew he wouldn’t drink any at this time of day—Derek didn’t really even like coffee. He was just giving Stiles some space to recover from that… onslaught.

Stiles headed to the wall of windows, and stood, turning the comparison over in his head. He got a little lost in his thoughts and startled when, an indeterminate time later, Derek tapped him on the arm and held out a mug of coffee for him. He nodded his thanks and took a sip, then cleared his throat.

“You’re totally right. I didn’t realize how that would feel to you,” he said haltingly. He took another sip, not turning to meet Derek’s eyes because he wasn’t sure what he’d see in them. “I think… I’m always trying to prove my worth, to this pack. To you. To everyone, I guess. Like if I don’t tell you what I’m good at, and that I’m better at it than anyone else, you’ll think you don’t need me. Won’t want me,” he corrected, around the tightness in his throat. “But I, uh. I get that that’s not an excuse.”

“It’s a reason.”

Stiles turned to glare at him. “That doesn’t make it okay that I’ve treated you like shit for years, and not even realized it. You can’t just excuse that kind of thing because I said I’m sorry.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to keep doing it?”

“No?” Stiles rolled his eyes. “I mean, I’m going to try not to.”

Derek shrugged. “Then fucking accept my forgiveness, asshole.”

“Jerk,” Stiles said, bringing a hand up to gently shove at Derek’s shoulder. The smile at his lips grew into something less tentative when he saw that it was matched by the one on Derek’s.

Stiles gave him a questioning look and glanced at the hand still on Derek’s shoulder. Derek rolled his eyes, took Stiles’s hand, and led him over to the sofa.

“How long’s it going to take,” he asked, while Stiles sipped his coffee, “until you realize you’re never going to be drummed out of this pack, never let go, not even if you want to? This is _your_ pack, as much as it is Scott’s or mine. You don’t have to prove your place.”

Stiles nodded, not trusting his voice, and not sure what he’d say anyway.

“Not to me, either,” Derek added a bit more quietly.

“I…. Thanks,” Stiles managed, cutting his eyes over to Derek. They’d never talked about _feelings_ , and he honestly didn’t think he could handle that right now.

Derek sighed a little but didn’t seem to have anything left to say. Stiles took a long, tension-releasing breath and moved across the sofa until their thighs were pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” he said, just to finish off the conversation.

“I know.” Derek leaned in closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “It’d be nice if the evil stuff would stop targeting you all the time,” he mused.

“No kidding.”

“We’re going to lock you up next the time you try to pull this self-sacrificing heroic crap, though. Scott, your dad, Melissa—we’re done with this. We won’t let you.”

Stiles snorted, giving him a side-eye.

Derek’s arm squeezed uncomfortably tight for a moment. “Try me.”

A million replies filtered through Stiles’s mind, but the one that came out, finally, was, “No. I don’t think I will.”

Derek gave him a questioning look.

He shrugged. “I want to try a version where no one has to sacrifice themselves, maybe. No one feels like they’re expendable.”

“That does sound nice,” Derek agreed, the arm around Stiles’s shoulder relaxing.

Stiles wiggled closer, fitting their bodies together in the ways they’d learned worked best, most comfortably. “Yeah.”


	20. Underdressed

“Wake up,” Derek said, whispering directly into Stiles’s ear.

Stiles made a sound of protest and burrowed further under the thin sheet. “No.” He tried to move closer to Derek, but was pretty much already as close as they could be without any body parts inside other body parts. In a sexy way, not in a Luke-and-the-tauntaun way. “Cold.”

“Yes. It’s cold. Which is why you need to wake up,” Derek replied, still whispering into Stiles’s ear.

That was odd enough to set off alarm bells, far more effective than any clock. Why was Derek trying to be so quiet? Stiles peeled open one sleep-sticky eye, and moved his head back far enough that he could see something other than Derek’s neck. He pulled back further.

“Why is there…” He trailed off, working one hand out of the tangle of sheets and bodies to touch Derek’s hair. “Why is there snow in your hair?” he asked, a totally different kind of chill creeping into his bones. Derek pulled away, taking his beautiful warmth with him, and Stiles looked around.

They were in their bed—well, Derek’s bed, but Stiles had claimed this pillow and it was his now—in their usual sleeping configuration of one supernaturally hot body, one chilly human body, and a flannel sheet but no blanket. Perfectly normal.

What was _less_ normal was that the bed, which had been in Derek’s loft when they’d fallen asleep, was now in a forest. It didn’t look outrageously unlike the usual forest surrounding Beacon Hills, which was a tiny, tattered shred of comfort. The light dusting of snow on the forest floor, bed, and Derek’s hair was less comforting.

“Uh,” Stiles said helpfully.

“I’m pretty sure we’re not in the Preserve,” Derek said, and it was nice that they were on the same wavelength, trying to identify where they were first-thing. It was less nice that this was a thought process Stiles was becoming familiar with, but that topic could be addressed at a later time.

Pros: Derek was with him—and not in a Sleeping Beauty coma or injured; they were most likely still within the county line; it was daylight; Derek was apparently not sensing anyone-slash-thing close or malevolent enough to wolf out; and waking up in bed was always preferable to waking up on the ground.

Cons: pretty much everything else about the situation, including but not limited to _snow_ and _naked_ and _no phone_.

“Well, fuck,” Stiles said eloquently as he sat up and wrapped the sheet around himself.

“Hey!” Derek objected, trying to tug it back.

“I’m cold.”

“I’m _naked_.”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

Derek snorted. “I didn’t hear any complaints last night.”

“I’m a freezing, fragile human, and boxer shorts don’t actually provide much warmth,” Stiles said huffily as he tightened his hands around the sheet. He did not like the look Derek was giving him. It was avaricious and covetous, and yes Stiles _definitely_ usually liked that look, but when it was directed at _him_ , not at the one thing keeping him from getting snow directly on his pale, naked skin.

“You could wolf-out,” he suggested. “Fur’s probably pretty warm.” Derek huffed but didn’t disagree, and then a moment later Stiles was in bed with a huge, furry wolf.

“Huh. But now you can’t talk, like this,” Stiles observed. “Not sure if that’s a Pro or Con.”

It was kind of impressive that Derek-as-a-wolf had the same bitchface as Derek-as-a-human. Most canines couldn’t achieve that kind of judgmental expression.

Stiles cleared his throat. “Okay, so. I’m going to figure out how to wrap the sheets and stuff around me so I don’t freeze off any body parts that I like, and maybe you can figure out where we are? We’re safe, right? Ish?” he added.

Derek tilted his head in a motion of agreement, and leaped down from the bed to prowl around in increasingly larger loops as he sniffed the forest. Stiles stripped the bed—which was more of a challenge than he’d expected, since he was still sitting on it—and wrapped the pillow cases around his feet, the fitted sheet around his legs like the world’s most inept skirt/kilt, and the bigger sheet around his shoulders. He even managed to have a floppy corner at the end to pull over his head. 

“I have achieved clothing!” he said with triumph, as he got out of the bed and tested the knots to make sure it would all mostly stay in place.

Derek’s wolfy huff was undeniably laughter.

“Shut up, asshole. Let’s see you do better,” he challenged.

Derek turned in a small circle as if to show off his fur.

“Okay fine, whatever. Lead the way out of here, Lassie.”

Derek huffed his displeasure at the nickname, but sniffed twice and headed into the trees. He stopped after a moment.

“What is it?”

Derek sniffed at the base of a tree, quietly growling in the back of his throat.

“What? Is something out here?” Stiles asked, getting ready to start running.

Derek lifted a leg and peed on the tree, then turned to give Stiles a smug look.

“Jerk. But good idea.” Stiles found his own tree to water as fast as he could. “Jesus Christ, it’s freezing. I think I’m a eunuch now. Will you still fuck me if I don’t have balls?”

Derek ignored him, and set off in the direction he’d started in at a quick pace. They walked for a little while, and then a little while more than that. It turned out that sheet-cloth was not the best shoe material, and Stiles was very much missing his tennis shoes. Despite the activity that should have been keeping him warm, he was shivering enough to be worrisome, and he whooped when they suddenly broke through the treeline.

“It’s a road! Yay! I love roads, roads are awesome! Which way to civilization?”

Derek didn’t actually need a mouth to convey the sentiment _Calm down, idiot, it’s a dirt road, who knows where it goes?_

“It’s so weird that your body language is just as clear when you’re full-wolfy as when you’re human. Or I’m hallucinating. Is that a hypothermia symptom?”

Derek ignored him and set off down the road, stopping every now and then to scent the air. They walked for long enough again that Stiles started to worry about exertion plus adrenaline sweat equaling way too cold. It was right around the time that he was losing the battle against a _we-are-so-fucked_ panic attack that they saw a wooden shack off to the side of the road. 

Stiles set off at a slow jog while Derek raced ahead to secure the area. When Stiles caught up, Derek nodded at the door, indicating that it was safe. That didn’t exactly solve the problem of the lock, though.

“Huh. Should I just break the window? But then it’ll be cold inside too. But maybe we can cover it up with something… I think I see some papers in there. All right,” he said, and started to look around for a rock or stick he could use.

Derek huffed, moved back, and ran forward, body slamming the door. The flimsy lock in the doorknob popped right open.

“Oh Mr. Hale, you’re so manly! Stop or I’ll swoon!” Stiles simpered, rolling his eyes.

Derek looked entirely too smug.

Inside they found a desk, cupboard, maps, pamphlets, some canned goods and freeze-dried rations, an incredibly itchy blanket that Stiles was nevertheless glad to add to his ensemble, and no phone. The only bit of technology was a CB radio.

Stiles sighed. “Well, let’s see if this thing works like the radios in cop cars, shall we?” He fiddled with a few things, checked that there were batteries in it, flipped the button, and was pleased to see the lights come on.

“Breaker, breaker, anyone out there got their ears on?” he said, laughing to himself. Derek did not look amused.

There was a long pause, and then a static-filled voice came on. “Station 103, this is Station 45. Is this an emergency?”

Stiles whooped. “Hell yes, it’s an emergency. We’re lost, naked, and it’s snowing. And I have no idea where I am.”

There was a burst of static and then nothing.

“Hello? Copy?” he asked, worried. Derek shoved up against him, reassuring.

“Injured?” finally came through, but there was so much static Stiles could barely understand it. “Calling […] County […] send someone out,” he managed to parse. Apparently the storm was messing with the signal.

“Copy that. No injuries, thanks. What station did you say I’m at?”

“One Zero Three” came through nice and clear, as did, “Stay off the line, kid, unless it’s an emergency.”

“Ten-four,” Stiles said, signing off and making a face at words he’d heard many, many times from Beacon Hills dispatch in his youth.

The next thing he did was start scanning the map stapled to the wall, looking for Station 103, and then freaking the hell out.

“Holy fuck, how did we end up all the way across the county?”

Derek tilted his head in a very doggy fashion, regarding the map. He managed to shrug, which seemed like something canines shouldn’t be able to do.

It was a couple of hours before they—well, Derek—heard a car approaching. They’d eaten some food, Stiles had read every scrap of paper in the shack, and finally they’d curled up in a nest of blankets and dozed. They’d managed to untangle, and Stiles was readjusting his “clothing,” when Derek pushed the door open to go and check out their visitor. His ears pricked up, and Stiles could tell Derek was laughing, even before his dad got out of the SUV.

It took John a few moments to stop chuckling too. “Nice outfit, son. When they said there was a naked boy lost in the woods, I somehow knew it was going to be you.”

“I’m not a _boy_ ,” Stiles griped.

John took out his phone and snapped a quick photo. “Sure, kid. This one’s going in the annual newsletter, for sure. Go on Derek, move over and get in there next to Stiles. Now how the hell did you two end up in the middle of nowhere in the first snowstorm of the winter?”

Derek shifted back to human as Stiles started to open his mouth to answer.

“No, wait, first—why are you both naked?” the Sheriff asked Derek.

Derek gave him a bland look. “We were asleep in bed and woke up out here—in bed. I don’t wear clothes to sleep; we have a higher body temperature than humans.”

The Sheriff shrugged. “Okay. And you, my icy-nosed son? Why are you naked?”

Stiles gestured at Derek. “He was naked. Like I’m going to miss out on that?”

John closed his eyes for a long moment. “I’m sorry I asked. Back to the original question—how did you end up out here? Also, Derek, while you do have a great physique, could you maybe cover up a bit? I’m cold on your behalf, and unlike my son, I don’t want to see your junk.”

Stiles grudgingly parted with one of the sheets, while John went out the SUV and brought in some warmer blankets, all of which Stiles claimed for himself. They discussed the possible options as the three of them piled into the SUV, but couldn’t come up with anything better than “because magic,” which wasn’t exactly useful.

They were almost back to the main paved road, when Derek suddenly paused mid-word. “Wait. How are we going to get my bed back home?”

Stiles—and John—laughed for at least the next mile, while Derek glared. He’d really liked that bed.


	21. Velvety

Derek closed his eyes for a long moment after he pulled his present out of the brightly-colored bag full of tissue paper. He looked sternly at the small handful of purple velvet and sighed. “I’m never telling you anything, ever again. Ever.”

“Too late!” Stiles cheered, grabbing the item away from Derek and holding it up. “Purple velvet booty shorts! Do you have any idea how hard it was to find these?”

“Not hard enough, apparently.”

Stiles ignored him. “Finding ones for women is easy-peasy. For men, not so much. Thank god for Etsy.”

“Which god, exactly, is the god of purple velvet booty shorts?” Derek asked.

“I don’t know yet, but when I do, there will be a sizeable offering, let me tell you. Now, go try them on.” Stiles grinned and made a shooing motion toward the bedroom.

Derek shook his head. “Oh no.”

“Come on, please?”

A fear-inspiring twinkle sparkled in Derek’s eyes. “Nope. It’s _my_ present, and I want to see _you_ put them on.”

“But—”

“Is this a present for me or for you?” Derek asked, no longer bothering to hide his grin. “I want to see my fabulous birthday gift on _your_ booty.”

Stiles huffed, then took them from Derek’s hands and stomped off to the bedroom like he’d suddenly developed a sense of modesty. “Fine. I will model your present for you.”

A few moments later, Derek looked up from where he was fiddling with his phone as Stiles stalked back into the living room as unsexily as possible. To his dismay, pop music started to play from the speakers as Derek gave him a pleased once-over, followed by an expectant look. “Dance.”

“What.”

Derek tsked. “Punctuation is important, Stiles,” he teased, throwing the frequent complaint back at him. “I want a lap dance. Show me what you’ve got for the birthday boy,” he said, settling deeper into the sofa cushions as he patted his thigh.

“I….” Stiles bit his lip, closing his eyes as he shook his head in defeat, and took a slow breath as Derek cranked up the volume. He’d been utterly betrayed by the God of Booty Shorts. “Fine.” He kept his eyes nearly-closed, knowing he still mostly looked like a spaz when he danced, but managed to slow down and match his moves to the bouncy-but-sultry rhythm as he imagined grinding against some guy in a club. He rolled his hips and got an approving noise from Derek.

“Turn around.”

Stiles pivoted, stuck his ass out, and swung it from side to side like a clock pendulum, following the slow part of the chorus.

“Don’t be shy, baby, I’ve got a twenty dollar bill over here with your name on it,” Derek teased.

A flush crept down Stiles’s chest. “You do know I’ve never actually been in a strip club, right? I’m not entirely sure what’s involved.”

Derek gave him a look. “There is no way on earth I believe that you haven’t seen at least a dozen lap dances on the internet. Besides, you’re doing fine. You look good.”

Stiles preened a little and backed up, closer to the sofa. “So now I just sit down in your lap and… grind?”

“Pretty much.”

Stiles moved until the backs of his knees touched Derek’s legs, wiggled his butt a little more, then sat down. He slid up Derek’s thighs, and then stopped in surprise when he felt Derek’s cock against his ass. “This is really doing it for you?” he asked, twisting around to look at him.

“Well, don’t quit your day job just yet, but yeah. I’m enjoying myself.” Derek brought his hands around to Stiles’s hips and then around toward the front, stroking the velvet fabric.

“Hey now, no touching. Don’t make me call the bouncer.”

Derek gripped his hips more firmly. “It’s my birthday; can’t we move this to Champagne Room territory?”

“You sure you’ve got enough to cover that?”

Derek growled a little and lifted his hips, grinding against Stiles’s ass. “I have plenty.”

Stiles wiggled a little more, feeling reassured that Derek was enjoying this—no greater proof than an erection, right? He managed to turn around not entirely ungracefully to sit facing Derek, and scooted forward until they were pressed together.

The velvet booty shorts in no way concealed that he was hard.

“Is that for me too?” Derek asked.

Stiles tried not to laugh as he leaned down to kiss him. “All for you,” he agreed, cupping Derek’s head in his hands. He wiggled to the continuing music a little bit, and their laughing kiss grew wetter and more hungry at the resulting friction.

Derek’s hands guided him to lift up a little, then slid them down to cup Stiles’s ass and squeeze. “I like the velvet on your ass,” he said, stroking across the curves and in toward the crease until Stile’s breath stuttered. “But I like your skin more,” he murmured as he slid his hands inside, edging the shorts down so Stiles’s ass was bared. He growled a little as he hitched Stiles forward so they could grind against each other as he devoured Stiles’s mouth.

Stiles gasped for breath. “I thought you were supposed to be the one enjoying this, not the dancer.”

“I only have two more twenties, so I’ll have to make it worth your while in another way,” Derek said. He was flushed and breathing harder, too, as he eased the shorts further down over Stiles’s hips. “Up,” he said, and pulled them down in the front too, tucking the elastic waistband under Stiles’s balls.

He wrapped his fingers around the length of Stile’s dick, giving it a few strokes, and then held Stiles’s gaze as he brought the fingertip now coated with precome to his mouth. Stiles opened his mouth obediently, licking the salty fluid off Derek’s fingertip, and then sucking the whole thing into his mouth and fondling it with his tongue.

Derek’s body jerked a little, and Stiles grinned as he stroked lightly over the finger in his mouth with his teeth. Derek’s brow furrowed in a mock-glare, and he dug his hands further into Stiles’s crease until they slid against his hole. He looked up at Stiles, surprised. “You already prepped?”

“Like we weren’t going to fuck tonight? I thought I’d save time.”

“But I like that part,” Derek said, a little disappointed.

Stiles rolled his eyes, and reached back to move Derek’s hands to where he wanted them, sliding his ass against Derek’s now-slippery fingers until he got the tip of one inside. “I think you’ll like this part too.”

Derek laughed a little, and Stiles grinned back. “Now,” he said, letting go of Derek’s hands to tug at the man’s shirt. “I realize there’s supposed to be an imbalance of power here, but you are wearing too many clothes to make this as much fun as I think it could be.”

“And what do you suggest?”

Stiles slid back on Derek’s thighs, trying not to whimper—much—as Derek’s fingers slid out of his hole. “You’re going to need to at least get your pants open,” he said, eyeing the straining bulge in Derek’s jeans. “Think you can do that without taking them off? Or do I need to get up?”

Derek held Stiles steady with one hand, while the other—with Stiles’s help—unbuttoned his fly and shoved his jeans down far enough to get his dick out. Stiles’s own cock jerked as he watched, and Derek gave him a smug grin.

“Lube?”

“There’ s probably still a packet between the cushions from last Friday,” Stiles suggested as he trailed a hand down the buttons of Derek’s shirt until they reached his cock and gave it a firm pull, while Derek fumbled until he found the elusive packet. Stiles rewarded him with a hungry, filthy kiss, and took the packet away, ripped it open, and slicked him up.

He lifted off of Derek’s thighs as Derek moved down toward the edge of the sofa, until his cock was sliding between Stiles’s cheeks and—with a little help—pressing inside. Foreheads resting against each other, they both groaned, letting the sensations of filling and being filled overwhelm them for a moment.

Stiles moved until the angle was just right, and then started an urgent rhythm—still sort of matching the beat of the music, which he was proud of, thank you very much. Sparks were starting to fizz throughout his body, and he could tell this was _not_ going to be a long one. Thank god the music had at least changed—if he’d managed to get off in one song or less, he’d be so embarrassed. Fortunately, Derek seemed to be along for the ride—ha!—with him, so it was all good.

Derek was mouthing at this throat, not sucking or biting really, just tasting and making incredibly pleased noises as he guided Stiles’s hips and made tiny thrusting motions upward. Stiles was gripping the back of the sofa like it was the only thing keeping him upright as his pleasure started to peak. His fingers were starting to cramp a little when Derek just fucking _lifted him up_ and held him still, so he could fuck into Stiles exactly the way he wanted—deep and quick and unerringly hitting exactly the right spot to make Stiles shout.

Derek actually came first, which was rare, jolting into sudden stillness as he moaned and cursed against Stiles’s neck, hands clenching bruises into Stiles’s hipbones. Stiles was so conditioned at this point that the pain of the bruises was actually what made _him_ come, that little taste of pleasurable pain as Derek lost control and let go, that always made Stiles feel like he’d accomplished something.

His dick was pressed hard against Derek, and when he came, it got all over Derek’s shirt. His muscles were straining and his thighs were starting to quiver, but Derek was still holding him steady as they breathed against each other’s mouths and kissed sloppily. Stiles was pretty boneless as Derek shifted them around a little, pulling out and of course releasing a deliciously gross cascade of come from Stiles’s ass. Whatever; Derek always seemed to enjoy the smell of their come on each other, and it was his birthday, so Stiles didn’t care so long as Derek cleaned him up before they fell asleep.

It turned out that straddling someone was lovely for sex and some post-coital cuddling, but not a long-term comfy position, so eventually they had to untangle. Stiles’s legs were a little wobbly as he stood up, and he grinned, satisfied to see that Derek wasn’t a hundred percent unaffected either.

While Derek striped off his sweaty and come-covered clothes, Stiles peeled off the now-soggy velvet booty shorts, and gave them a sad look as he held them out to Derek. “We ruined your present.”

Derek took them out of Stiles’s hand and dropped them on the floor where they made a wet splat, as he pulled Stiles’s body against his, laughing. “Worth it.”


	22. Wet

“Yay,” Stiles said in a flat voice. “This is the third one, so we have a pattern.” He made a face at the naked corpse slumped over in the shower. “Have I mentioned that I’m super disturbed that I’m no longer at all disturbed by dead bodies? I should be disturbed. It’s disturbing. I’m not happy about this.”

“The dead body? Or the fact that you’re not disturbed by it?” Derek asked, crouching down to get a better look at the dead man’s face.

“Both? But I meant the second. But I should have meant the first, try to be a better person, yadda yadda, whatever.”

Derek shrugged. “It’s just a body. It’s not doing anything.”

“Right, I should save being disturbed by dead bodies for zombies or something. Got it.” Stiles nodded. “Okay, so?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a drowning, like the others.”

“But this is a _shower_.”

“Nothing gets past you,” Derek said, still looking at the corpse. He ran a finger across the drain, then squinted at whatever residue he’d picked up.

“If you taste that…” Stiles warned.

Sheriff Stilinski came back into the bathroom. “You’ve only got a minute or two, guys. The coroner is parking her car. Find anything? It is one of ‘your’ things, right?”

“Not all supernatural things are ‘our’ things.” Stiles huffed.

“This one is,” Derek said, standing up from his crouch. “No one drowns in a shower by natural causes. And this black goo? Not mold. Don’t let them take samples, if you can help it.”

John raised an eyebrow.

Derek sighed. “I don’t know what demonic goo will look like under a microscope, but I bet it will raise a lot of questions.”

“Got it. Chalking it up as another overdose,” the sheriff sighed. “Now get the hell out of here, I hear Parrish escorting Emily inside.”

“Ms. Rosenthal,” Stiles corrected him with a smirk.

“Any kid I knew when they were in diapers gets called by their first name,” his dad grumbled.

“Too bad, old man. Some of us are all grown up and professional now.” Stiles let Derek pull him out of the bathroom and down the dark hallway, just in time to avoid the deputy and coroner. Once they were out the back door, Derek made to strip off his gloves, and Stiles hissed at him. “Wait, I want to bag those,” he ordered, pulling an evidence bag out of his back pocket.

Derek raised an eyebrow at him.

“ _I_ want to know what demonic goo looks like under a microscope,” he said, as if it was obvious. “Think I can talk Deaton into letting me use his stuff? Or do I have to break into the school again?”

“Is it really breaking in if you have a key?” Derek mused.

“Yeah, I should get a key to the vet clinic,” Stiles said nodding, not only ignoring Derek’s point but swerving into a much more dangerous direction.

*****

It turned out that the demon goo looked like oil and ashes under the microscope, which was both boringly mundane but also kind of intriguing, and Stiles would be looking at that again later because what the fuck? The victims had three points of intersection: members at the same gym, same church, and kids roughly the same ages.

Stiles poked at the most recent photo tacked to the wall. “There’s only one real gym in town that’s not affiliated with a school or medical clinic, so that’s not super helpful. We’ve got to narrow this down if we’re going to find out what’s going on before there’s a fourth victim.”

“I’ll take a look at the gym,” Scott offered from his seat on the sofa. A few months ago, the sheriff had relented and let Stiles turn the unused guest room into an investigative study/command center/secure place to store all the supernatural crap that probably shouldn’t be in Stiles’s bedroom. Not that he slept there much anymore.

“I’ll go with you,” Erika offered. “I can check out the women’s locker room.”

“You and Boyd can check out the church,” Stiles said, nodding at Derek, “And I’ll—“

“Uh, no,” Derek interrupted. “I’m… not a fan of churches.”

Stiles looked at him with surprise, then expectation. Derek gave him a look back, and they had a silent-eyebrow conversation that concluded with Derek’s eyebrows grudgingly agreeing to explain more, after the others left.

“Oooh-kay. So Boyd and I will check out the church. Unless there’s some kind of anti-werewolf thing with churches, like crosses and vampires? No? Just you? Okay then.”

“I’ll stay here and look into the kids,” Derek offered.

“That’s kind of a dead end,” John said, from the lounge chair he’d added for himself. “I’ve already run background checks on the parents, and there’s nothing significant. The kids all go to the same school, but Beacon Hills only has two elementary schools, so that’s not significant either.”

“Then I’ll start looking at things that can make people drown in a shower.”

“Lydia’s already on that, and Deaton and Thorne. And me,” Stiles said.

Scott glared at Stiles. “Come to the gym with me and Erika,” he said to Derek. “You can say you’re a trainer looking at working there, and Erika and I will be prospective members. We’ll see different things, I bet.”

“Good idea,” Derek agreed, and Stiles beamed. It was so nice to see the two of them working together, even if they did have a bad habit of ganging up on him.

“I’ll get dinner?” Isaac suggested. “I’ve got a midterm to study for anyway.”

Stiles nodded. “Excellent. Regroup tomorrow evening?”

*****

It was nice to be dealing, for once, with a mystery that didn't involve any of them being directly attacked by a monster. Stiles got to dive into some good old-fashioned research, the wolves got to use their noses, and the sheriff got to run background checks. It was like old times.

If old times included Stiles, shivering and nearly naked in front of a dead man’s shower, with Derek watching.

“I’m not sure I want to do this,” Stiles admitted. “What if it doesn’t work? What if it _does_?”

“It was your idea,” Derek pointed out.

“I know this is going to come as a shock and surprise, but not all of my ideas are fantastic.”

“You’ve shattered my world-view.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Stiles turned on the water and waited for something to happen, or for it to warm up. Nothing happened. The water did warm up.

“Well?”

Stiles sighed and stepped into the shower stall. “I’m not closing the curtain. Also, this is super creepy. And bad science—there are too many variables.”

Derek sighed and held up a towel to keep some of the water off the floor. “Do you feel like you’re drowning?”

“I feel like I’m standing in a dead guy’s shower, in my underwear, with my boyfriend staring at me. And not even in a sexy way.”

“So that’s a no?”

Stiles flicked water at Derek. He steeled himself, then closed his eyes and leaned back to let the water splash down his face. Nothing happened. He opened his mouth, letting some water in, and swallowing. Nothing continued to happen.

Derek reached in and turned off the water. “So either you’re immune, or…?”

Stiles grabbed the offered towel and started drying himself, shimmying out of his wet boxers and into his clothes as quickly as possible. “Well, if I’m not immune for some reason—like, say, a history of magic and possession and possible fairy molestation—then either whatever killed that guy is gone now or it wasn’t just the water. Which contradicts the water samples we took, because all three showers of the dead dudes were covered with traces of supernatural goo.”

“So whatever’s in the water is either gone now or it doesn’t want to kill you.”

“I feel so unwanted,” Stiles pouted.

“Don’t worry, sometimes I still want to kill you,” Derek reassured.

“Ditto,” Stiles said, turning around for a quick kiss.

*****

The fourth death had Stiles, Deaton, Melissa, and Derek in the morgue, reexamining the corpse to see what they had missed. So far, nothing.

“Such a shame,” Deaton mused. “All four of those kids orphaned now.”

“They were all single parents?” Melissa asked.

Stiles nodded. “More or less. One guy’s wife died, the other two were divorced but had full custody since the moms live out of town, and the lady didn’t list a father on the kid’s birth certificate.”

“Why did none of you mention that? Being a single parent is a huge stressor. You should be looking at local parents’ groups, AA, after school programs, the kids’ school records, medical records….” She trailed off. “Wait. This guy, Chuck Gilbert. His kid was in here a week ago.”

“Oh?” Stiles asked.

She nodded. “Pretty sure. I thought I recognized him from the Urgent Care waiting room. The perks of working in a small, understaffed county hospital is pretty much everyone comes through here at some point. I’ll pull the parents’ and kids’ records and bring them over tonight.”

“Just totally going to ignore that whole HIPPA thing?” Stiles asked, grinning as Melissa cuffed him on the back of the head.

“Whatever. They’re dead, and the kids are minors. People are dying, and I don’t feel bad.”

Deaton gave her a rare semi-smile of approval. “ _Do no harm_ means sometimes not following the rules.”

Derek snorted. “No one in our pack has ever considered rules as anything other than guidelines.”

Stiles turned to look at him, pretending to gasp in shock. “Did you just reference _Pirates of the Caribbean_? I am so turned on right now.”

“Get out of my hospital,” Melissa said, rudely interrupting the lewd thoughts Stiles was having.

“We’re in a morgue,” Derek scolded him, as she all but shoved them out the doors.

“What, joking is okay, but only if it doesn’t make me horny?”

“Yes,” Deaton said, catching up with them and escorting them out. “Irreverent humor helps dispel some of the discomfort of being around dead bodies. Sexual arousal, on the other hand, is a definite no.”

“So judgy,” Stiles huffed.

*****

Everything came together pretty quickly after that. It turned out that all of the kids were frequent visitors to Urgent Care. Sprains, bruises, concussions—all the usual results of clumsy, hyperactive kids. But all of the records noted that the parents were either domineering or uninterested, and the kids were withdrawn or clearly afraid. Child Protective Services had been contacted by the hospital staff for three of the four kids.

“Okay, so clearly it’s child abusers.” The sheriff sighed. “But unfortunately, there are more than four cases like that in this county, so why were these parents the only ones that died?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Stiles said, grinning as he turned to the county map taped to the wall. “The four green post-it notes are the dead parents’ homes. The three orange ones are other houses that have been contacted by CPS in the last six months, but no one has died. See anything in common?”

“All but one are on the northeast side of town?” Derek suggested.

“Is this that ley lines stuff again?” Boyd asked.

“Maybe you could just tell us, instead of making a dramatic production out of it?” Isaac suggested. “I have a date.”

“But I like the drama,” Stiles said, deflating. “Fine. All of the living parents are on the outskirts of town. All of the dead ones are within city limits. Two lived in free-standing homes, and two lived in multi-family residential buildings. But they all have city water flowing through their pipes. The ones outside city limits are on wells.”

His brilliant pronouncement was met with silence.

“So something is in the water?” Scott asked.

Stiles tried not to roll his eyes. He failed. “Yes, Scott. Something is in the water. In the city water, but not the ground water. Targeting parents who abuse their kids. Leaving demonic goo behind.”

“So someone’s cursed the water,” Derek said, frustrated. “We knew that two weeks ago.”

John stepped in before his son exploded. “No, we suspected it. Now we have enough data to be certain, and we know who the targets are. Which means we can figure out how the water got cursed and who is doing it.”

“One of the doctors?” Erika suggested.

“The CPS workers?” was Isaac’s contribution.

“Someone at the school?”

Stiles and his dad nodded in sync, and then both pretended like it hadn’t happened. “Someone from one of those groups,” Stiles agreed. “And I’ve already run all the names in the various case files, and only one pops up for all four: Stephanie Perez, the school’s vice principal. She called CPS for all seven of the kids, and personally took three of them to the hospital.”

Melissa nodded. “And she made sure the nurses checked those three kids for bruises all over, not just for the immediate, most obvious injury.”

“That sucks,” Erika said. “She was helping those kids. And now we have to kill her?”

Derek scowled. “Maybe we could just ask her to stop?”

Erika gave him an incredulous look. “Ask her? You mean ‘with claws,’ right? Because otherwise I don’t know who you are.”

Stiles punched Derek lightly on the arm. “Aw, I’m so proud of you. Using words.”

Derek turned his scowl to Stiles. “I meant ‘ask with claws,’ Stiles. Duh.”

Stiles shrugged, grinning. “It’s still progress.”


	23. Xenagogue

Stephanie Perez was on a cruise in the Bahamas for the final week of the elementary school’s Winter Break.

Stiles was standing at the water’s edge beside a very cold-looking lake, wearing swim trunks, and shivering his ass off. His goosebumps had goosebumps, his hands were tucked so far under his armpits that they felt like little icy fists of death burrowing into his ribs, and his balls, well…. They had receded so far into his body that he was wondering if his voice would have gone up an octave, if he could get a few words out past his chattering teeth. 

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Derek asked, wiggling his toes in the sandy mud.

“No.”

“So we just… jump in and hope this magic spell works?”

“Spells,” Stiles corrected him. “One for breathing underwater and one for warmth. It’s just above 40 degrees in there. Anything under 60 is considered life-threateningly cold.”

“Explain to me again why we don’t have wet suits?”

Stiles shrugged. “Because we’d also need deep-sea diving equipment, and we’d need the specialized cold-water stuff, and we don’t have any of that. And Deaton thinks the magic spells will work better anyway. Assuming they don’t crap out before we get back on dry land.”

“You sound filled with confidence and optimism.”

Stiles edged his big toe into the almost-freezing water. “Well. Either it will work, and we’ll be fine. Or it won’t, and we’ll die from drowning pretty fast.” He shrugged. “Kind of our usual odds.”

“True.” Derek sighed. “Have I mentioned before that our usual odds really suck?”

“No, Derek, tell me all about your theory that perhaps something negative is happening in and around Beacon Hills.”

Derek shoved him a little.

“If you two are done wasting time,” Deaton chided, from his camp-chair near the road, where he was swaddled in blankets and holding a thermos with steam coming out of it. “I’d like to get home soon.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, after flipping Deaton off. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Kiss me?” he said, turning to Derek.

“I feel like this is bad luck,” Derek said. “Call me crazy, but kissing you in case we’re about to die feels somewhat pessimistic.”

“Kiss me to make Deaton uncomfortable,” Stiles suggested, moving into Derek’s space and pressing their lips together. They kissed until Deaton threw a rock at them.

“Get in the goddamned water so I can cast this spell and go home,” he demanded.

“We should totally make out in front of him until I get a boner,” Stiles murmured against Derek’s lips.

Derek snorted. “In this weather? That would be, like, three months from now.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Boys! Get in that damn lake, or I'm going to go home and you can try casting the charms yourself.”

Derek grabbed Stiles by the hand, and tugged him forward until they were standing about thigh-deep in the frigid water. It was so cold, Stiles already couldn’t feel his toes, and he was about to say screw it, those people were hurting kids anyway, why couldn’t they just let the cursed object stay in the water and kill the bad people?

Then there was a wash of warmth that almost hurt, the contrast was so sudden. He was still wet though, and Stiles cast a quick glance down to check that he hadn’t just pissed himself.

“You thought you peed, didn’t you?” Derek smirked.

“And you didn’t?”

Derek ignored him. “Okay so, we’re going to swim out there to where that thing is supposed to be glowing, and dive down until we find it, and bring it back. Right?”

“Yeah.” Stiles paused, then said, turning to look at Deaton, “So, I keep meaning to ask if we can use magic to stay warm in the water, and to breathe under water, and to make the thing glow, why the hell can’t we just use a summoning charm and make it come here?”

“Because there’s no such thing as a summoning charm,” Deaton said, making a face. “As I have said before, _Harry Potter_ is not actually an authoritative source on magic.”

“Oh, but we have dementors—”

“Wraiths,” Derek interrupted.

“Fine, wraiths, and witches, and werewolves. And that's just the Ws.”

Deaton closed his eyes and took a slow breath, a gesture Stiles was unfortunately quite familiar with by now. “Get in the lake right now before I hex you.”

Stiles tsked. “Grouchy.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Derek said, taking Stiles’s hand and pulling him under the water.

Stiles had a weird moment where his body assumed he was going to choke on the water because he hadn’t held his breath, but instead of coughing and sputtering and drowning on the inhaled water, he was fine. He could see a faint shimmer around his body, which he assumed was the air-bubble spell, or whatever it was. Deaton had not been very forthcoming with the details— _shocker_.

The water around them was nearly opaque, a murky greenish brown above them, and nearly black below. The water currents weren’t quick, but there were shapes moving, and Stiles moved closer to Derek.

“I think they’re just plants and maybe small fish,” Derek said. His voice was underwater-muffled but still understandable, which probably had something to do with the magic spells.

“I don’t see a glow at all,” Stiles said. “Do you?”

Derek took a few moments to look around, then gestured. “I think over this way. It’s much harder to see under water.”

They swam for a while—long enough for it to be super-weird to not have to come up for air, but not long enough to be tired. There was no other way to gauge distance, and the only direction Stiles was confident about was “up.” As the light got more and more faint as they dove deeper, Stiles started to worry that this was taking too long, that the charms would wear off, that they wouldn’t be able to get back to the surface in time. He was going to die in a watery grave, and he wasn’t even doing anything cool—just swimming. He would inhale water and choke, his lungs would seize from the cold, and he’d thrash for a few minutes before suffocating, because there was no way he’d make it to the surface, and it wouldn’t matter even if he did—.

Derek grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Calm down. Focus on what we’ll do when we find this thing.”

Stiles nodded, and took a few slow breaths, and hoped this would all be over with soon. And then he almost yelled because there was a dark shape swimming around them, circling, and not nearly far enough away for comfort. It was big, bigger than a dog. Smaller than Stiles, but still big, far too big. He’d been worried about freezing and breathing and staying alive, but never _once_ , not in all his worse-case scenarios, had he considered SHARK IN THE LAKE.

Clearly, he should have. It was Beacon Hills, after all. They were still in Beacon County. It was only logical that there would be some kind of unspeakable, horrible monster in the lake. Duh. He should have planned for Cthulhu.

“What do we do?” Stiles asked, and not feeling at all reassured by the panicked look on Derek’s face.

A deep voice responded, “ _Go away_.”

Stiles gawped at Derek. “Uh.”

“Did you say that?” Derek asked.

Stiles shook his head, feeling the water move through his hair, and wondering if it would be the last thing he felt. “No. Didn’t you?”

The dark, terrifying shape that was probably Stiles’s doom and grisly death came closer and hovered in front of them. “ _I said it, mammals. Go away. You do not belong here_.”

Stiles blinked. He glanced at Derek. It was a telepathic, talking… fish. Because of course.

“I don’t like this dream, I want to wake up now, please,” Stiles whimpered. “Come on, wake up, Stiles. Sexytimes with my hot boyfriend. Wake up!”

Derek pinched him. “Stop it.”

The fish swam even closer until it’s huge head was right next to Derek’s. Its teeth weren’t that big, but they were sharp, and Stiles had seen piranha at the aquarium, and—like dicks—size didn’t always matter.

“ _Get out of my lake_ ,” the fish said again. “ _Now_.” It seemed to be getting more huffy than worrisomely angry, which was… funny. It was a huge fucking fish—carp, probably—and it was _indignant_.

Stiles suddenly hoped his fingers didn’t look like little worms to the fish. He liked his fingers, all of them. He wanted to keep them forever.

Derek seemed to take Stiles’s ongoing, unfocused panic as a sign that he needed to take over. “We’re looking for something, and then we’ll go away. I promise.”

The fish—carp—swished its arm-fins. Fish faces were distressingly non-expressive, and Stiles had no idea how this was going to go down. Its tone was distinctly crabby, as it finally asked, “ _What are you looking for_?”

“We’re not sure,” Derek admitted. “It’s supposed to be glowing, but we’re having a hard time finding it.”

“ _The magic light is over that way_ ,” the fish said, kind of gesturing with its tail. “ _Down by the four big trees_.”

“Could you show us?”

 _Why_ was Derek having a conversation with the enormous fucking fish that was probably going to eat them? What kind of fucked up dream _was_ this? This was unacceptable. If reality wasn’t going to make any sense at all, Stiles demanded that his dreams make sense. Or at least be super sexy-dirty. This was neither. Someone, somewhere, in some afterlife, was going to get a piece of his mind once this fish-monster ate them. 

“ _You’ll take the shiny thing and then get out of my lake_?” the carp asked doubtfully. 

“Yes,” Derek agreed. There was a long pause. “Do you want something in exchange for your help?” 

“What the actual fuck!” Stiles yelled, twisting around to face Derek. “You don’t offer things to giant, magical creatures that could eat you! Unless it’s in exchange for not eating you. And it hasn’t said it wants to eat us yet!” 

Both the fish and Derek turned to stare at Stiles. Who was, admittedly, freaking the hell out, waving his arms, with his hair floating all around his head like some kind of seaweed. He signed and scrubbed his hands over his face. 

“ _Restock the lake_ ,” the fish said. “ _I’m the last carp_.” 

“Okay,” Derek agreed, and Stiles gave him an incredulous look, mouth open unattractively, but said nothing. 

“ _Then you’ll leave_?” the fish asked, clarifying. “ _Mammals don’t belong here. Magic makes the water taste strange, and I want you to go_.” 

“Yes, I promise.” 

“ _And you’ll make them put some carp in here? Not just trout and bass. They’re good for eating, but I want to spawn again_.” 

“Yes,” Derek said. 

The fish hovered for a moment, looking at each of them until Stiles somehow got even more uncomfortable than he already was. The fish made a grunting noise. “ _This way_.” 

Stiles and Derek swam behind the fish, which kept circling back around and making very put-out noises, and generally implying that they were slow as hell. Which, obviously, they didn’t have _fins_ , for fuck’s sake. Let’s see how fast that giant carp moved on land, thank you very much. 

“Do you have a name?” Stiles asked, out of the blue (well, murky green), surprising even himself. 

The fish circled back and stared at him for an uncomfortably long time. Then it made a blooping noise at him. 

Stiles blinked. “I’m going to call you Mr. Carp.” 

Derek made a choking noise next to him. “You named your teddy ‘Mr. Bear,’ didn’t you?” 

“Shut up,” Stiles replied. He’d only named one of the bears Mr. Bear, the one with the bow tie. He was dignified. 

The carp—Mr.Carp—apparently decided to ignore them. They swam further, finally stopping beside a cluster of sunken logs, which had probably come from one of the lumber mills some time in the last century. With a feeling of immense relief, Stiles saw a faint glow from the left. He and Derek made their way over, and there, beside one of the logs, it was. Stiles dug around in the silt, making a small cloud of dust. His fingertips finally grasped a small, flat, oval-shaped piece of metal, slightly larger than a nickel, but not as big as a quarter. 

Stiles was not impressed. This tiny little thing was the big scary magical object? The one that had been killing people, cursing the entire town’s water supply, enacting vengeance? 

“It’s a pendant,” Derek said helpfully. 

It was disappointing, was what it was. Stiles sighed and slipped it into the Velcro-closed pocket on his trunks. His pants glowed. 

“ _You and your magic go away now_ ,” Mr. Carp prompted them in a somewhat snippy tone. 

This was what Stiles’s life had come to: being telepathically sassed by a giant fish. He had a quiet little meltdown over the state of his life while Derek promised Mr. Carp that he would personally make sure the lake was restocked, and that yes, there would be some lady carps. 

“I need to figure out my life,” Stiles mused as he and Derek made their way back to the surface. Their heads popped up, allowing them some blessedly non-lake-water-flavored air. The sound of Deaton honking the car’s horn floated across the water from the other side of the lake. Of course. 


	24. Yearly

_To: Hale-McCall-Pack@googlegroups.com  
From: melissamc@bhmh.org_

_It’s that time again! Mandatory renewal of your First Aid & CPR certification will be in two weeks, from 9-3 on Saturday, March 5th._

_Note that this is MANDATORY! “Mandatory” means that this is not optional, and you will attend for the full session, or I will personally skin you alive (Peter, Isaac, STILES). You are officially required BY YOUR ALPHAS (and parents) to know how to save the lives of “weak and pathetic humans” like me, John, Chris, Allison, Lydia (not human, but lacking miraculous healing abilities), Thorne, Deaton, and STILES. To say nothing of saving the lives of innocent human bystanders. First Aid can make the difference between someone’s survival or their death._

_Please note that neither your own personal abilities to heal, nor your ability to use magic to heal yourself or others, is an acceptable excuse to skip this training session (STILES)._

_I know where you all live and I will make your life hell until you get recertified._

_-M._

_PS - Don’t forget to bring a bag lunch._

*****

To: melissamc@bhmh.org  
CC: Hale-McCall-Pack@googlegroups.com  
From: sparkystiles@gmail.com

_Hey! That is so not fair, I was legitimately busy last year with something essentially important that I can no longer remember. You didn’t tell me about any other possible dates that I could take the training, so it’s your fault, really, that I didn’t get recertified._

_Also, it’s not like I need a refresher course every damn year – Dad’s been making me learn this stuff since I was six and started hanging out with this weird, wheezy asthmatic kid. I patched up a ton of his booboos before Peter bit him._

_-S.S._

*****

To: melissamc@bhmh.org  
CC: Hale-McCall-Pack@googlegroups.com  
From: dhale05192005@gmail.com

_I will knock him out and drag him to the training, if necessary,_

_-Derek_

*****

To: melissamc@bhmh.org  
CC: Hale-McCall-Pack@googlegroups.com  
From: scottyrox@gmail.com

_Ditto, what Derek said._

_-Scott_

_PS - I patched up a ton of your booboos too, dude._

 _*****_

 _To: Hale-McCall-Pack@googlegroups.com  
From: jstilinski@sheriff.beaconhillscounty.gov_

_Please remember that my son’s brain is fragile and he’s already had several concussions. Let’s try avoid further brain damage, okay?_

_Non-injurious use of force should suffice._

_-J._

 _*****_

 _To: Hale-McCall-Pack@googlegroups.com  
From: sparkystiles@gmail.com_

_Et tu, Dad?_

*****

On the morning of the training session, Stiles was waiting outside the door at 8:30 AM. Coffee, a bagged lunch, pens, notebook, iPad, and other assorted educational tools were bursting out of his backpack. Melissa rolled her eyes, but ruffled his hair affectionately before she unlocked the door to the hospital’s community room.

Kira, Allison, and Lydia were the next to arrive, with lattes and bleary eyes from being out too late on a Friday night. Scott, Isaac, Boyd, and Erika came next, looking bright-eyed and not even a little worse for wear, despite the fact that all seven of them had been out late at a concert together. The rest trickled in, and by five minutes past nine, the whole pack was there. Almost.

“Where are Peter and Deaton?” Melissa asked. She had a clip-board and was tapping a pen against it, literally taking attendance.

“Deaton said he was current, and he’s a medical professional,” Thorne said. “He offered to send you a snapshot of his certification cards if you wanted.”

“And Peter?” she asked, looking at Derek.

Derek shrugged “Why on earth would I know? I haven’t seen him since Christmas.” 

Melissa tsked, but since Peter was more Hale-McCall Pack-adjacent than actual Pack, it wasn’t like they could force him to do anything. He showed up when he wanted, left when he was done using them for his own purposes, and was just closely enough affiliated to not be considered an Omega by other packs.

“No loss; I wouldn’t trust him near me with a band-aid,” Lydia scoffed.

There were general nods of agreement, and Melissa sighed but moved on. She passed out the First Aid/CPR/AED program booklets, and got started. They went over the boring stuff first, like Recognizing An Emergency (“If you are there, it’s probably an emergency”) and the Check-Call-Care protocol.

“Yes, for the last time, you should always call 9-1-1! They have medical equipment that they _bring to the scene_ , and if you call them first, maybe someone won’t bleed out while you’re still fighting the monsters.”

“I’m pretty sure most folks in the Beacon Hills service departments know about the supernatural by now, anyway,” John said. “And I know werewolves run super-fast, but I’d prefer for you to carry my bleeding son to the goddamned ambulance that’s on route instead of all the way to the hospital.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Scott said. No one looked surprised.

They did some group role playing scenarios, drawn mostly from real-life. Stiles was pretty sure that Melissa, Chris, and his dad didn’t really need to enjoy hounding them all so much about making sure the scene was safe (“buildings that are on fire are not safe”), how to triage according to severity of injury (“don’t just save your boy/girlfriend while strangers are dying”), and the proper way to move an injured victim (“pretty much never a fireman’s carry”).

It was a litany of everything they’d done wrong in the last year, and Melissa had brought actual _notes_ about previous emergencies, and what she thought they should have done. Everyone was pretty grouchy by the time the CPR dummies came out. The smirk on Chris’s face wasn’t reassuring.

“These dummies have been modified. While it’s fairly normal in the course of CPR to crack or break the victim’s ribs in order to keep their heart going, that’s not actually the intended goal. Some of you need to work on moderating your strength, so these dummies will make a distressed noise if _your_ CPR would end up crushing them to death.”

“Cool!” Stiles and Scott chorused. It took about one-fifth of a second before they had one of the dummies on the ground and were crouched over it while Scott compressed the chest cavity as hard as he could. The dummy made a wheezy, bleating noise that sounded like someone stepping on a sheep.

“Oh. My. God.” Stiles was gasping as he clutched his chest and laughed.

Five minutes later, he and Scott were _still_ on the floor. They were curled against each other like puppies, and while pretty much everyone else had managed to calm down after a few laughs, they were still caught in an extreme giggle-cycle. Each time one of them almost caught his breath and calmed down, the other one would set him off again.

“Did this happen a lot when they were kids?” Derek asked.

John and Melissa exchanged a commiserating glance. “You have no idea,” John said.

“You learn to ignore them until they get it all out,” Melissa added with a sign. “Okay folks, we’re going to take the lunch break and let these two nitwits get themselves together. Meet back here in an hour.”

By the time Stiles and Scott both managed to stop, everyone else had left except Derek. Stiles was on his back, clutching his sore abs and whimpering. “I don’t think doing fifty sit-ups in two minutes hurts this much.”

“When was the last time you did fifty sit-ups in two minutes?” Derek asked. The skeptical tone of his voice was not flattering, and he looked entirely too smug as Stiles tried to remember if he’d actually been to a gym in the last calendar year or not.

“Are you saying I’m flabby? Weak? I’ll have you know I’m nowhere near as scrawny as I was when we met.”

“You were still practically a child when we met,” Derek pointed out. “I’d certainly hope your body has changed since you were sixteen.”

“Oh, the changes to my body,” Stiles said, wiggling his eyebrows lasciviously at Derek.

“Okay, I’m out,” Scott said, rolling over and all but running from the room. “I don’t want to hear about your body, dude, and especially not from Derek.”

“Derek loves my body!” Stiles called. “It’s a very sexy body, and it does all the sex things and Derek thinks it’s super hot.”

“Derek thinks he’s the only one you’re talking to, because Scott is long gone.”

Stiles kicked out weakly and made contact with Derek’s foot. “You do think I’m super hot though, right?”

Derek made a considering face, taking some time to think about it.

“You’re so mean to me,” Stiles lamented, throwing an arm over his eyes.

With a soft chuckle, Derek moved from the table to sit beside him on the floor. He bent over and kissed Stiles gently. “So hot, ” he agreed.

Stiles laughed, and then immediately clutched his stomach. “Ow, I think I seriously pulled some muscles, you fucker. Don’t make me laugh.”

“You should start working out with me,” Derek said, and then corrected himself before Stiles could do more than give him an incredulous look. “At the same time, I meant. Not doing exactly what I do, for as long as I do it. I’ll do a quarter of my workout with you, and do the rest later.”

“Oh good save; that definitely makes me feel better about myself.”

“It’ll be fun,” Derek cajoled, a sultry grin spreading across his face. “We’ll get hot and sweaty, and all worked up. I can help you stretch your hamstrings. You can stand over my face and spot me while I lift weights.”

“Now you’re talking.” Stiles grinned, pulling Derek down for a longer, dirtier kiss than the one before. Derek moved to straddle him, brought the lower halves of their bodies together, and returned the kiss with intention.

“Ugh, get off him,” Isaac yelled as he, Boyd, Erika, and Kira burst back into the room a disappointingly short time later. “I never want to see either of your hard-ons again.”

“Kinda implies that you _did_ want to see our dicks at some point in the past,” Stiles said from underneath Derek. “Also you’re options are _either_ for Derek to get off of me, _or_ for you to not see the delightful way we’re both filling out our jeans. Your choice!”

“That better be CPR or I’m turning the fire extinguisher on both of you,” Melissa threatened as she joined the crowd.

“Someone get the defibrillator!” Stiles joked as he and Derek hastily untangled. “He took my breath away.”

“Worth it,” he whispered to Derek, laughing as they kissed one more time while they were pelted by pens, balled-up paper, and empty coffee cups.

*****

_To: Hale-McCall-Pack@googlegroups.com_  
From: melissamc@bhmh.org

_SAVE THE DATE_

_The next MANDATORY First Aid & CPR certification training is currently scheduled for next year on Saturday, March 7th, from 9-3._

_No demonstrations of CPR as the “kiss of life” will be tolerated, STILES and DEREK._

_-M._


	25. Zeppelin

Stiles twisted around from his seat beside Derek on the sofa so he could look at him, now that the TV show had ended. “You’ve been acting weird. Are you planning a surprise party for my birthday?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “What? No.”

“Just because I can’t hear your heartbeat doesn’t mean you can lie to me.” Stiles met Derek’s scoffing look with a significant one. “I know you.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, twenty-two isn’t a big deal birthday. You guys went all out for twenty-one, or at least that’s what they tell me. The memories are pretty hazy. Point being, this isn’t a special day, and so long as someone other than my dad says HBD—to my face, not on Facebook—then it’s all good.”

“Thank you for giving me permission to almost-but-not-quite ignore your birthday.”

Stiles shrugged. “I’m a generous kind of guy.” There was a slight pause while his brain sprinted a few miles ahead. “Unless… Unless you’ve already set something up. It’s not like I’m not grateful; I’m sure I’ll love it, whatever you have planned.”

“Stiles! I’m not acting weird because I’m planning a big surprise for your birthday. I had, in fact, kind of forgotten it was coming up week after next. So thank you for the reminder, and the notification of just how low the bar of expectations has been set.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’”

“Soooo…. Then why are you acting weird?”

Derek threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’m not acting weird!”

“You just _are_ weird?” Stiles grinned

Derek got up with a huff and stalked into the kitchen, taking the dirty dishes with him. “Sometimes I hate you.”

“You love me,” Stiles sang from the living room.

An irritated growl came from the kitchen.

“Aw, don’t be embarrassed by your feelings,” Stiles teased. “It’s okay to love me. I’m super loveable. I’m awesome.”

“Awesomely annoying.”

Stiles stretched out on the sofa, stealing Derek’s cushion and generally taking up all the possible space. “I’m going to be the age you were when I met you,” he mused. “Dear lord, no wonder you hated all of us; I can’t imagine hanging around a bunch of high school sophomores.”

“How I refrained from murdering you will always be both a mystery and my greatest accomplishment.”

Stiles flipped him off over the back of the sofa. “Me personally, or ‘you’ meaning all of the pack?” 

There was a long pause, but no answer, not even a growl.

“Whatever. All those threats, but I knew you liked me. You wanted all up on this.”

Derek returned, made a put-out noise, and lifted Stiles’s feet as he sat down and then put them in his lap. “I did not, in point of fact, ‘want all up on that.’ I want to be 100% clear that I wanted absolutely none of your sixteen year old virginal, young body.”

“Not even a little?”

“No. Go look at a sixteen year old at the school sometime, and you tell me if you’d want to bang them. Even the hottest one.”

Stiles pouted. “Hrmph. You were _supposed_ to say that I was so tempting that you could barely hold back from giving into my sexual allure.”

“Your ‘sexual allure’ pretty much consisted of smelling like spunk 24/7, with peak freshness right after you got home from school. I left your windows open because I was trying to encourage you to let your room air out so I wouldn’t gag.”

Stiles kicked him a little. “Whatever. You liked it.” There was a beat of silence that was too long, and Stiles crowed in triumph. “Hah! You did!”

“It made me gag,” Derek argued.

“And yet I notice that you’re falling into your werewolfy habit of not actually lying, but not answering the question or contradicting the statement, either. It made you gag, but you also liked it.”

“Have I mentioned that I hate you? Oh, I have? Good.”

Stiles kicked him some more. They tussled on the sofa until Derek ended up on his back, Stiles on top, attempting and failing to smother him.

“How did we go from you understanding how annoying sixteen year olds are to a twenty-two year old, to you being offended that I didn’t want to bang your underage ass?” Derek asked, wrapping his arms around Stiles and turning it into a cuddle.

“Don’t ask me how my brain works,” Stiles said with a sigh. “No one will ever understand me.”

Derek kissed him. “You should donate your brain to science. When you’re done using it,” he added.

“Thanks for clarifying.” Stiles bit him on the lip as punishment, but then immediately kissed it better. And then kissed it even better, mood shifting from playful to demanding. “Take me and my amazing brain to bed?”

“Only if you and your brain manage to shut up.”

Stiles leered. “I’m sure you can think of several ways to shut me up.”

Derek’s eyes flashed red. “I’m sure I can. In fact, I have a few ideas I’d like to try out right now,” he teased, grabbing Stiles’s ass and moving their hips together in a slow grind. Not until Stiles’s dick was hard and starting to throb did Derek stop long enough to shift around, scoop him up, and carry him to the bedroom.

In point of fact, Derek was extremely successful in not allowing Stiles to express coherent words for almost an hour.

*****

Stiles hurriedly cleared away the applications he’d been working on as the door to the loft rolled open. How had so much time passed so quickly? He shoved everything into a big manila envelope he hoped didn’t look too important, and pushed it under a pile of junk mail on the table just as Derek walked into the kitchen.

“Back so soon?” he asked, aiming for casual, as he closed a bunch of tabs on his computer screen.

Derek leaned over the chair and kissed him briefly. “What, that wasn’t enough time to jerk off?”

“PornHub just wasn’t doing it for me today,” Stiles lamented, leaning back to yawn and stretch. “I’m getting old.”

“Maybe it’s the music?” Derek asked, shoving the pile of papers on the table aside to make room for the grocery bags he was carrying.

Stiles snorted. “You don’t think 70s rock is a turn on?”

Derek gave him a look. “No one under fifty jerks it to Pink Floyd.”

“Don’t you try to kink-shame me, buddy. I’ve seen your browser history.” The red tinge to Derek’s cheeks made Stiles cackle in evil satisfaction.

“Shut up,” Derek said, throwing something small and cylindrical to Stiles.

Stiles fumbled, almost catching it but overbalancing on the chair, and having to grab the table so he didn’t fall over. He made an irritated noise as he got up and retrieved the bottle that had rolled into the living room area, ignoring Derek’s laugh.

“Melatonin?” he asked, reading the label.

“I thought it might help.”

Stiles made a face. He’d been having a bad bout of insomnia, and had stopped sleeping with Derek for the last several nights. Even super vigorous sex hadn’t managed to wear him out for more than a short nap, and lying there awake and worrying about keeping Derek awake had just made him even more tense. Trying to sleep at his dad’s house had worked out a little better, but not much. He’d finally crashed out on the floor at Scott’s house last night, when Scott took a break from gaming to talk to his girlfriend on the phone, and Stiles had gotten the first good night’s sleep in what felt like a week.

“It’s one milligram, and the guy at the counter said it was mild. It’ll either help or do nothing, not knock you out,” Derek said.

“I was thinking I’d just try drinking way too much whiskey tonight.”

“Good plan; I hear that’s such a healthy way to deal with stress.”

Stiles made an obscene gesture as he sprawled across the sofa. Derek joined him a few minutes later, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, and offering him an apple as a peace gesture. It was the kind Stiles liked, so he took it. After a few bites, Derek nudged him.

“Why is your birthday freaking you out so much? You’re not the one looking down the barrel of thirty.”

Stiles shoved him with his shoulder. “Blech. I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, and took a defiant bite of the apple.

“Usually you never shut up.”

Stiles shoved him again and took several large, smacking bites of the juicy apple, as he tried not to answer. He sighed. “Fuck you. I don’t…. Talking is easy. Talking about _real stuff_ is hard.” There was a long pause while he finished the apple, licking the juice from his fingers and then wiping them on Derek’s thigh as punishment. Derek growled a little, trapping Stiles’s sticky hand and not letting it go.

“It’s just… I can see all the possible options for my life spinning out in every direction. Like I’m at the hub of a wheel, and every spoke is a different life, and there are dozens of paths, and I can see them, but I don’t know which one will make me happy, which one will turn out to be the best. I’m stuck.”

They sat in quiet contemplation for a few minutes before Derek spoke. “You don’t have to pick one thing and stay with it forever, you know.”

Stiles snorted. “I feel like I’ve already wasted three years of my life, taking pointless classes I don’t care about at the community college and working shitty minimum wage jobs. Some of us aren’t wealthy enough to change their minds and careers every couple of years, you know. I’m already going to have student loan debt no matter what I do.”

“So basically, you have a ton of possible career choices, and you have to pick one for the rest of your life, you can’t ever change your mind, and there’s no room to make a mistake. Is that right?”

Stiles nodded.

“And you hear how dumb that is, right?”

Stiles made an irritated noise, but nodded again.

Derek hesitated a bit, then said, “You know my dad was a financial advisor at an investment firm, right? But he had a BA in philosophy.”

“I know,” Stiles said, frustrated. “And my mom was into art. She went to beauty school and did hair for a while, and then decided to become an EMT—which is where she met Scott’s mom. And then Mom got a job in Dispatch, and that’s when she and my dad met. I know life isn’t linear for a lot of people.”

Derek squeezed his hand. “So why does it have to be for you? And besides, you know better than most people that no matter what you decide, life is going to happen and fuck up your plans anyway.”

A smile tugged at Stiles’s mouth. “Wow, thanks for that, Mr. Cheerful.”

“Just calling it like I see it,” Derek said with fake nonchalance and a smile. “Just pick something. If it’s a mistake, then you can at least cross it off the list. Stop getting so stuck in your head.”

Stiles shoulder-butted him. “I’ll get right on that, thanks.”

“Have you tried making a list of all the options, the pros and cons, and see which one comes out best that way?”

“Dude,” Stiles said in an affronted tone, twisting around to look Derek in the eyes. “This is me you’re talking to: I have spreadsheets. Multiple. Color-coded.”

Derek laughed. “And?”

Stiles untwisted back to lean on the sofa properly, which also conveniently let him stop looking at Derek. “Well. There’s this huge problem that we live in a goddamned forest in the middle of fucking nowhere, and there aren’t any decent schools around here. I’d have to move to Sacramento, if not further. And yes, there are distance education programs, and some are at really good colleges. But I’m not sure they’re the best fit for me, since you may have noticed that I kind of like to interact with other people. And you have to pick what program to major in when you apply. And maybe going to college isn’t really what I want anyway. Ugh, I don’t know,” he said, growing increasingly more frustrated.

“Okay.” Derek squeezed his hand. “So… what’s with this music?” he asked, changing topics.

“Huh? Oh, I made a playlist of a bunch of songs my mom had on a mixed CD when I was a kid. ‘Mellow Music to Calm the Kid,’ she’d named it.”

Derek laughed, putting an arm around Stiles’s shoulders. “Did it work?”

“I guess,” he said, wiggling more comfortably into Derek’s embrace. “It’s 80s psychedelic, goth stuff mostly: The Cure, Cocteau Twins, New Order. The older stuff was my dad’s contribution: the Doors, Pink Floyd, some Led Zeppelin.”

“My parents had this weird in-joke about Led Zeppelin,” Derek said in a nostalgic tone, pulling Stiles over to straddle him, and give him a kiss tinged with humor. “It was forever until I got it.”

“Oh?” Stiles asked, lips brushing against Derek’s as he waited for the punch line.

“ _‘When it comes down to making out, whenever possible, put on side one of Led Zeppelin IV.’_ It’s from a total douchebag, in a lame 80s movie. My parents would always laugh and start kissing.”

Stiles laughed for a moment too, then pulled away. “Ew, I don’t want to make out to music your parents made out to. What if you were conceived to this song?”

Derek’s eyes got huge and they looked at each other in horror for a few moments.

“Well. Thank you for that,” Derek said flatly. His hands tightened on Stiles’s hips. “Have I ever mentioned that you’re your own biggest cockblock?”

Stiles smirked as he wiggled on Derek’s lap. “No one’s blocking my cock right now.”

Derek shook his head in fond disgust, but leaned forward to pull his shirt off, and then did the same to Stiles, who returned the favor by unbuttoning Derek’s jeans. “Better get to it before the song changes, then.”


	26. U and I

It was the calm before the storm, of course. Well, not _the_ storm, but _a_ storm. A large-teapot-size tempest at the very least. Stiles continued to sleep poorly—when he slept at all—and by the time his birthday rolled around, he was snappy and cranky and hated everyone in the universe, himself most of all. His stupid brain wouldn’t stop swirling around, rebutting every life-option decision with seventeen reasons why it wouldn’t work, and logic had fled so far away that Stiles was nearing panic-attack territory again. It had been years since he’d been so messed up, so tangled and trapped, and no one understood at all.

Not even Derek.

He’d had a nice birthday dinner with his dad, Melissa, Scott, and Derek, and then the two of them had gone back to Derek’s. The promise of sexy presents had made Stiles eager—he was owed something seriously good to match that horrible/wonderful lap dance he’d been forced to do for Derek in those purple bootie shorts. There weren’t a lot of sex toys that could fit in the small box Derek handed him, but he’d been hopeful that Derek’s creativity might surprise him.

Until he opened it and found a key.

He’d had a key to Derek’s loft since about a week after Derek had moved in. True, Derek hadn’t exactly _given_ him the key, but they both knew he’d had it, and enough years had passed that it was a kind of nonsensical gift. Unless it was symbolic, and Derek was asking Stiles to move in with him? He already pretty much lived there, but maybe Derek wanted to make it official?

He turned to Derek to ask, but Derek removed the key from the box and handed it to Stiles by the hand-written tag.

Stiles read the address out loud. “ _‘151 Santa Ana Ave.’_ There isn’t a Santa Ana Avenue in Beacon Hills,” he said, forehead wrinkling in confusion. 

“No, it’s in Sacramento,” Derek explained. “Near the police academy.”

Stiles blinked as he turned to face Derek slowly. “And… you decided since I was dithering around so much, you’d just handle my life for me?” he asked, his voice calm and furious. “Sorry it’s been so annoying to be around me as I struggle to figure things out.”

His heart was pounding in his head, and his hands were starting to shake. He shoved the box back at Derek, and stood up. “I’m going to leave before I start yelling,” he said, grabbed his car keys, and stormed off.

He’d changed his mind about driving since his vision kept blurring, and had eventually ended up at a bar near the high school, after taking a few laps running around the track. His hand hurt from where he’d punched the chain-link fence surrounding the field, and he had torn his shirt climbing over it. He was drenched in sweat and wanted to do nothing more than go back and yell at Derek and punch his stupid, beautiful face into a bloody pulp.

“Another?” the bartender asked, holding up the bottle of whiskey.

Stiles gripped the empty glass, almost wishing he could shatter it. He took a slow breath in, then out. “Not yet.”

The man nodded. “Sounds good. You let me know. Or if you want me to call someone to give you a ride home. It’s a little less than an hour until last call.”

“Okay.” Stiles fiddled with the glass for a few minutes, then slid it back to the guy. “How about some water?”

He drank the first glass in one go, and the second one only a little slower. His head was throbbing but mostly empty of thought, like the running and whiskey had burned out both his rage and his words. He made his way to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. The reflection in the deeply scratched mirror was hazy, but the circles under his eyes were still obvious.

The midnight air woke him up more than the cold water had. Stiles was unsurprised to see Derek leaning against his car in the parking lot.

“Do you want me to take you to your dad’s?” Derek asked as they got in.

“No.” They drove for a while, in a silence that was neither awkward nor angry. “I just want to shower and go to sleep,” Stiles said as they approached the loft.

“Okay,” Derek allowed, and that was that.

*****

Stiles woke up feeling like the foggy haze of indecision that he’d been trapped in had been burned out of him, and he was lighter somehow. Half embarrassed by his behavior the night before, half glad he hadn’t stayed and fought with Derek until they broke up. Look—maturity in action!

The smell of coffee lured him into the kitchen. Derek slid a steaming mug across the counter to him, and Stiles took it gratefully, with a quiet word of thanks. Derek sat down at the table with his own coffee, and they drank in silence for a few minutes.

“Want to go to the diner for breakfast?” Stiles asked, hesitant.

“I have stuff to make you blueberry pancakes,” Derek said.

Stiles nodded, then shook his head. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

“I know,” Derek said, meeting Stiles’s eyes. “I want to, though. If you’ll let me.”

“I meant that more about the key-thing than the pancakes,” Stiles clarified, shifting away from Derek’s intense gaze.

“I know.” Derek got up and started assembling ingredients and pots and pans. “I just…. I didn’t want you to worry about the money part. It’s not charity,” he added quickly before Stiles could do more than draw in a breath to respond. “This is what the Hale pack money is for. You’re pack, so you’re entitled to pack funding. Especially if what you’re doing is going to benefit the pack directly, as a career in criminal justice would. But even an art degree or whatever is fine too. You can change your mind.”

Stiles frowned into his coffee cup but didn’t argue. It didn’t sit right with him, someone else paying his way, but he supposed he hadn’t thought about it like that. “I guess that would take some of the pressure of my decision,” he allowed. “But I still feel trapped.”

“How so?” Derek asked, clattering around the kitchen as he started the pancake batter.

Stiles rolled his eyes, then counted to ten before he made a bitchy remark. “I feel like I can’t leave home. Not this stupid little town, the pack, or my dad, or you. And I sort of don’t _want_ to. But I feel like I don’t have a choice about it, and… that makes me feel trapped. I don’t want to stay here and regret it, either.”

He finished his coffee and got up to pour himself another, nudging Derek in a friendly way as he reached past him for the milk. The kitchen was a wreck. “So. The key means not worrying about living expenses while I do ‘whatever’ in the nearest decent-sized city.” He waited for Derek’s nod. “What do _you_ want me to do?”

“I want you to be happy.”

“Super helpful, thanks.”

Derek spun around as he made a frustrated noise, spatula in hand. “I want you to stay here and be the emissary for this pack, and help me protect the Hale territory, and live with me happily ever after. But—” he held up his hand before Stiles could interrupt, “But you’re too young to know what you want to do with the rest of your life—and so am I—and I don’t want you to make decisions based on what I want, or what’s best for the pack, and then resent us later.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Derek made a face. “You don’t know that for sure.”

Stiles rolled his eyes again. “No, I don’t. You’re the one who said to just choose something, though. Maybe I’ll regret it. Maybe I won’t.” 

He sighed as Derek turned around to flip the pancakes, and pulled the key out of his pocket. He rubbed his thumb over the rough edge, thinking.

“Maybe you’re right. I think I need to get out of Beacon Hills, for at least a little while.”

“It’s only three and a half hours away,” Derek said after a few moments, sliding a plate full of pancakes across the table to Stiles.

Stiles poured some syrup over his pancakes and took a few bites while he thought about it. “And the police academy is only a six-month program. It might be a good way to test the water,” he allowed, scraping up the last of the syrup and holding his plate out to Derek expectantly. Derek rolled his eyes, but took it and got up to make another batch. “How much rent are you going to be paying?”

“Uh.” Derek sounded sheepish. At Stiles’s raised an eyebrow, he said, “I bought the building.”

Stiles looked heavenward. “Of course you did.”

“It’s a good investment!”

“Not if you don’t charge me rent.”

Derek made an exasperated noise. “You’re a good investment, too.”

“Oh, so it’s just that this is good for the pack, then?”

“No, asshole,” Derek said, turning around with the plate full of hot pancakes. “I think it’ll be good for you. I figured either you’d instantly know that you hated the idea and didn’t want to do it… or you’d be willing to give it a try. Either way, you’d have a decision.”

Stiles huffed. “You’re right. I don’t like it when you’re right, it weirds me out.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Stiles replied with a grin, and leaned across the table to give Derek a maple-and-blueberry flavored kiss.

Derek grabbed his shoulder before he could pull away and kissed him. His grip on Stiles’s shoulder was firm, but the kiss was surprisingly soft, as was Derek’s tone of voice as he said, “I just want you to be happy. I love you.”

A million smart retorts flooded Stiles’s brain, but the resulting traffic jam stopped them all before they could come out of his mouth. Derek had never actually said those exact words before, or at least not seriously. Maybe not ever.

Stiles blinked and licked his lips. “Oh. Okay.”

“Okay?” Derek’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

“I mean. I love you too,” he said, around the sudden tightness in his throat.

Derek leaned in to kiss him again, and pulled back with a smile that wavered between tender and teasing. “Good. I cooked, so it’s your turn to do the dishes.”

Stiles looked around the utterly wrecked kitchen and sighed. “How about after sex?” he bargained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck with this, and especially the ones who commented or left kudos. I never thought this would take over three years to write, and I couldn't have done it without the support. 
> 
> As always, I'm eternally grateful to my beta, Connie the Wonderful, who isn't even in TW fandom.


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